Bad Magic

  “Sorry,” said Clay, mortified. “I didn’t know it would do that.”

  “Oh, it’s okay, just this once,” said Mr. Bailey, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Look—”

  The offensive letters were already fading; the tree trunk was restored.

  As Clay watched, the small round door swung open, exposing the top of a steep ladder.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  THE LIBRARY INSIDE THE LIBRARY

  From above, the vault looked an awful lot like a dungeon.

  As he climbed down the ladder, Clay heard a cacophony of unnerving sounds. Not just buzzing. There was humming. Rustling. Fluttering. Squeaking. It didn’t sound like bees. Or not only bees. Maybe bats?

  There were no bats. Nor even any bees.

  Only books.

  It was chaos. They floated in the air, some gently swaying, some flapping like birds. Some were stuck in the roots that grew out of the ceiling. Others lay in piles on the stone floor. There were big books and small books. Old books and new books. But they were all, it was impossible not to see, magic books.

  It was a library inside the library. A magic library.

  “A bit less organized here than upstairs, isn’t it?” said Mr. Bailey, descending the ladder. “Magic is like that.”

  As he stared dumbfounded, Clay saw a familiar red leather book flying toward him, pages flapping wildly. Clay grabbed it out of the air and opened it.

  As he expected, he saw his own writing inside. MAGIC SUCKS! But a second later his bubble letters started to dissolve as if he’d poured water on them, and The Memoirs of Randolph Price came into focus. So there had been only one journal after all—one magic journal!

  No sooner had Clay come to that conclusion, however, than Price’s writing started to melt away, revealing another layer of writing hidden behind it.

  The Book of Prospero

  it now read on the title page.

  Clay paged through quickly. It was just as Price had described, full of strange drawings and spells and magical potions. A grimoire. The red journal wasn’t just a magic book—it was also a book of magic.

  And that wasn’t the only surprise: Folded inside was a letter—in handwriting Clay hadn’t seen in a long while.

  Happy birthday, Clay!

  I hope you didn’t think I forgot! I would never forget your birthday. Okay, so I forgot last year. I’m sorry, I was very busy with—never mind, there’s no excuse, I’m just sorry. And I’m sorry I cannot be there today. Try not to hate me. And if you have to hate me, don’t hate magic. Magic is not a bad word. Or if it is, it’s our kind of bad word. The good kind.

  I hope you’ve figured out by now what a great magician you are and will be. I knew you were a natural from the time you did that rope trick when you were five. I should have acknowledged it then. But the truth is, well, I was jealous. I know it’s nuts to be jealous of a five-year-old, but there you are. This may come as a surprise to you, it comes as a surprise to me, but I’ve never been a great magician. Too clumsy. Too anxious.

  You may think that rope tricks have nothing to do with “real” magic, but stage magic and real magic are a lot closer than most people suppose. That’s something I learned from an old man named Pietro, whom I will tell you more about someday. Magic, it is what is left when you stop pretending to understand, he told me. My problem is I can’t stop pretending to understand. But you—you don’t pretend at all. You’re the most honest person I know.

  Why did I run away? The answer is: you. Not to get away from you. To protect you. I see now that my absence is not enough. In fact, ignorance may harm you. I’m not going to say magic runs deep within you or anything like that, because I know you would say it was cheesy or cheese-wiz-y or whatever it is you say, but believe me when I say the magical world is going to catch up with you one way or another. Not just because you are my brother, but because you are you.

  I cannot spare you—it’s time to join the fight. The Other Side is in danger from people who would twist it to their own ends, no matter what the cost. We must stop them.

  I will see you soon. You are in good hands until then.

  Love, your proud brother,

  M-E

  Clay looked up from the letter, his eyes wet. He had been so absorbed in what he was reading that he almost forgot he was in a room full of floating books.

  “Well, are you in? Will you join us?” asked Mr. Bailey, who had been standing at a respectful distance while Clay read.

  “Yeah, dude, will you?” “Come on, man!” “Just join!”

  It was the Worms, crowding around the trapdoor above. They grinned down at Clay.

  “Join what?” he asked, confused.

  “SOS: The Society of the Other Side,” said Mr. Bailey. “That’s who we are. Everyone on the island.”

  “SOS…” Clay repeated. “So that’s what the message on the printing press was about?”

  Mr. Bailey nodded.

  “And the sign on the beach?”

  “A way to identify the island,” said Mr. Bailey. “Not a plea for help.”

  Clay held up the letter from Max-Ernest. “This society, does it have something to do with the fight my brother was talking about?”

  “The fight to protect the Other Side, yes,” said Mr. Bailey. “So what do you say? If you like, Owen will fly you back this afternoon. But if you want to stay, well, I think you’ll find my language arts class a little more exciting here than at home!”

  “Just say yes!” “Don’t be a loser!” “Stay and play with us, you dork!” the Worms chorused from above.

  Clay nodded, unable to stop the big smile forming on his face. Maybe they really were his friends after all, not just the best actors he’d ever met. “Okay, okay, I’ll stay. I just have one question. What’s the Other Side?”

  Mr. Bailey pointed to the ladder. “Why don’t you go outside and see?”

  As Clay left the library, he was almost blinded by sunlight. For the first time since he’d been on the island, the vog had completely lifted. There was not a cloud in the sky.

  “The Other Side is not another place,” Mr. Bailey was saying behind him. “It’s another perspective on the place you already are.”

  “You mean, it’s like the magic side of the world?” Clay asked, struggling to understand.

  “You could call it that. To me, it’s the world of potential. The world where the answer is always yes instead of no.”

  The lava moat was gone, if it had ever really been there, replaced by a ring of flowering bushes. The bees danced around the flowers, and then rose together in a waving ribbon formation. They circled Clay once, then flew off toward camp, as if leading the way for him.

  “Think of a kid who gets dismissed as a problem—you know, a bad kid,” said Mr. Bailey. “If you expect nothing from him, you get nothing. But if you give him a chance, you never know what he’s got up his sleeve.”

  “So every juvenile delinquent is secretly a magician?” Clay scoffed.

  “Why not?” Mr. Bailey looked into Clay’s eyes.

  For once, Clay was the first to look away.

  In a daze, Clay almost walked right into the director’s teepee, Over There. It was sitting among the ruins of Price Palace. Or rather, hovering.

  “Walk or ride?” asked Mr. Bailey, his eyes twinkling.

  It took a second for Clay to understand that Mr. Bailey meant the teepee. “Uh, ride?”

  Mr. Bailey bowed. “After you.”

  Entering the teepee felt a little like entering an inflatable jumpy house. It was difficult to stand without wobbling. Clay was glad Mr. Bailey suggested he sit.

  As far as Clay could tell, the teepee worked like a hot-air balloon. A magical, vanishing, cone-shaped hot-air balloon. The heat came from a camping stove, and Mr. Bailey steered with a system of ropes and pulleys.

  Soon they were floating over Earth Ranch at a height that just cleared the tallest trees.

  Almost everything looked the same; and ye
t everything was different.

  There were some obvious things. The rainbow on the outside of Art Yurt rippled like water. The dome over the fire pit pulsed with an electric glow. The trees and bushes and even vegetables moved slowly back and forth and up and down, as if they were all joined in a long synchronized dance.

  But it was the less obvious things that astonished Clay the most. Things that he didn’t see so much as feel. The more melodious singing of birds. The bluer blue of the lake and the greener green of the trees. The sense of warmth and well-being that radiated from the cabins and the yurts. The sparkling glow that seemed to pervade the very atmosphere of the camp. It was as if Clay were suddenly experiencing the world through the eyes and ears of a different species, perceiving colors and sounds outside the normal human spectrum.

  “When did—was all this there?” Clay asked.

  “The whole time, yes, right under your nose,” said Mr. Bailey. “You didn’t see it before because your mind wouldn’t accept it.”

  Mr. Bailey lowered the teepee slightly as they passed the blue barn. Clay could see Como at the fence, straining his neck to watch them.

  “He wants to come with us,” Clay said.

  “How do you know?”

  Clay shrugged. “I guess I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Mr. Bailey earnestly. “You’ve been communicating with that llama since you first got here. You just never believed it.… Sadly, he’s a bit too heavy to ride in the teepee with us.”

  Clay waved at the llama. “Sorry, he says you’re too fat, amigo!”

  As they started to float over the long crescent-shaped lake, a flock of blue parrots flew next to them, squawking loudly. For a moment, they were only a few feet away. Clay listened intently.

  “I didn’t say you were going to suddenly turn into Dr. Dolittle,” Mr. Bailey teased.*

  “Who?”

  “I just meant it might take a while before you’re communicating with all the animals.”

  “Oh,” said Clay, embarrassed. The parrots flew on.

  “But there’s no harm trying,” said Mr. Bailey reassuringly.

  They were past Egg Rock now, floating toward the waterfall. Clay could hear its roar and feel its spray blowing in the wind. The waterfall looked less milky than he remembered, and more pearlescent; there seemed to be a rainbow of colors in every splash. Before they got too close, Mr. Bailey pulled a rope and the teepee started to ascend higher and higher, as if they were chasing some of the clouds of vog that had cleared away.

  Clay thought perhaps Mr. Bailey planned to head for the volcano, but just then the ribbon of bees flew toward them and started circling the teepee.

  Mr. Bailey frowned in concern. “I think they have a message from Buzz. I hope everything is okay.”

  “Everything’s fine. Look—” Clay pointed.

  The bees had changed formation to deliver their message:

  “They aren’t guard bees,” said Clay, laughing. “They’re spelling bees!”

  It was just the kind of silly joke Max-Ernest would have loved. Someday, Clay hoped, he would get the chance to repeat it for his brother.

  Eventually, of course, he would get that chance, but by then he would have many more jokes—and many more adventures—to tell me about.

  THE END

  For more great reads and free samplers, visit

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  APPENDIX

  GRAWLIX (pl. grawlixes)

  Often found in the funnies section of a newspaper,* a grawlix is a series of typographical symbols employed in place of an offensive word or phrase.

  Like this: $#%@!

  The term grawlix was apparently invented by the cartoonist Mort Walker, who also defined a set of symbols, called symbolia, that you have no doubt seen in comic books and cartoons without having any idea they had names:

  agitron: a wiggly line that means an object is shaking

  briffit: a cloud of dust that means a character has left in a rush

  emanata: lines emanating from a character’s head that means he or she is surprised

  plewd: a drop of sweat that means a character is hot or stressed

  squeans: asterisks that mean drunkenness or dizziness

  waftarom: a wavy line that means something smells foul

  ONE POTATO, TWO POTATO…

  A potato robot is another matter, but it’s not difficult to make a potato battery. To turn a potato into a battery, you’ll need these items:

  two full-size potatoes

  (it helps to label them 1 and 2)

  two copper pennies or some copper wire

  two galvanized nails

  three pairs of alligator clips (each pair connected by wire)

  one low-voltage device, such as an LED light or a clock

  one adult*

  Insert a penny into potato number one, pressing the penny in as far as possible to maximize the surface area touching the potato. (The copper will make contact with the phosphoric acid in the potato juice. The penny is the anode.)

  Take the galvanized nail and drive it into the potato, as far away from the penny as possible. (It is the cathode.)

  Do the same with your second potato.

  Remove the battery from your low-voltage device. Let’s say it’s a clock. (That way we can see how long this potato battery works.)

  Attach one pair of alligator clips to the penny in potato number one and to the positive (+) terminal of the clock’s battery compartment.

  Attach another pair of alligator clips to the nail in potato number two and to the negative (-) terminal of the clock’s battery compartment.

  Use the third pair of alligator clips to connect the nail in potato number one to the penny in potato two.

  You should now have power. Set that clock! Time’s wasting. It’s not made of potato juice, you know.

  CLASSIC ROPE TRICK

  Note: This trick works much better with real rope than with licorice.

  Here’s how to do the old cut-and-restore rope trick. A rope about four to five feet long works best. And you’ll need a pair of scissors.

  After demonstrating to your audience that your rope is just rope, nothing tricky about it, your first step is to make a square knot very close to one of the ends of the rope. When you’re done, your rope should look like a lasso—or, if you prefer, a letter P—with a loop at one end.

  To make a square knot, lay your rope on a table. Take the left end and place it over the right, bring the (old) right back over the (old) left, then the (same old) left back over the (same old) right. (You should practice this a few times before attempting the knot in public; look in a book of knots if you’re confused.)

  When your knot is complete and you have a nice loop at the end of your rope, show it to the crowd. Then grab your scissors and announce that you are going to cut the rope in half.

  Then cut into the loop of rope. Try to cut very close to the knot and the short end of the rope. After you cut the rope, it will look as if you have two pieces of rope tied together with a knot. (In reality, it is just one piece of rope, and a knot that can be pulled off the end.)

  Now is the time to say a magic word. Wave a wand. Blow pixie dust. Whatever inspires you.

  Wrap your hand around the knot and pull it off the end of the rope. You should have a short piece of rope left in your hand—hide it.

  Let the rest of the rope fall, or stretch it between your hands. Voilà! The rope is restored. You are a master magician.

  Didn’t work the first time? Take heart—it never does. Keep trying.

  A WAGER

  It strikes me, as I bring this book to a close, that while I have discussed magic again and again, and even told you how to do a rope trick, I haven’t actually shown you any magic. A terrible oversight.

  As a remedy, I propose to perform a magic trick for you right here, right now.

  Don’t believe I can? Okay. Let’s make a bet.

  Not for money. Just for fun. Although if you want to th
row a few pieces of chocolate into the mix, that’s fine, too.

  I bet I can make you obey my command, no matter how hard you resist, no matter where you are reading this book.

  Are you prepared to be amazed by my magic powers?

  Turn the page.…

  I win.

  What? I wasn’t playing fair? That wasn’t the kind of magic you were thinking of?

  Fine, let’s try again. This time, I promise, no funny stuff. You will follow my next command as soon as you read it. If you don’t, I will eat my top hat.

  Ready?

  You will find the command on the next page. (Don’t worry—it has nothing to do with turning pages.) Drumroll, please…

  Here’s the command:

  Read this sentence.

  Ta-da!

  And there you have it, my friend. Magic. Right in front of your eyes.

  It’s in every book if you know where to look.

  Of course, there are some books that are more magical than others.

  And some authors.

  Now let’s have some chocolate.

  * OOPS.

  * LET’S JUST SAY EDITORS AREN’T THE GENTLE BOOKISH CREATURES PEOPLE THINK THEY ARE, AND LEAVE IT AT THAT.

  * Q: WHAT DO YOU CALL A DENTIST WHO HANDS OUT LOLLIPOPS?

  A: A VERY SHREWD BUSINESSMAN.

  ** WHY DO WE USE RANDOM TYPOGRAPHICAL SYMBOLS TO REPRESENT EXPLETIVES? HOW THE *&%*^#$ SHOULD I KNOW? I DO KNOW, HOWEVER, THAT THESE SYMBOLS ARE CALLED GRAWLIXES. (FOR MORE ON GRAWLIXES, SEE THE APPENDIX AT THE BACK OF THIS BOOK.)

  * AS FOR A BOOK BEING WRITTEN ABOUT YOU, THAT ONLY HAPPENS IF YOU’RE UNLUCKY ENOUGH TO MEET SOMEONE LIKE ME. BEWARE.

  * HEY, DON’T LOOK AT ME.… SHAKESPEARE SAID IT FIRST!

  * AND NOT THAT IT WOULDN’T BE A FINE THING IF HE DID!