More Than Magic

  “You’re here…you’re close…this really happened,” I whisper. The television seems to go nuts as the screen turns super squiggly. Where am I? Shazam!

  —

  “You’re here!” A figure steps out of a little stone cottage with a thatched roof. A shaft of moonlight illuminates her path across the dewy grass.

  “Rory!”

  “You did it. You crossed over.”

  “I’m in Ecalpon?” I catch my breath. It is beautiful. The night shimmers with stars. The grass is pearled with dew. A harvest moon floats low on the horizon. White night-blooming flowers tip their faces toward the sky, opening their petals to the darkness, while the morning glories have folded up and wait for dawn. Everything seems more real than real. The air stirs with the fragrance of hay, mud, chopped wood, and smoke. I am tottering on a fine edge between disbelief and belief. I look at my hands and arms. It seems as if my skin is a little pinker, less tan.

  “Do I have a bunch of freckles on my face? Is my nose still peeling?”

  “Nope!”

  “How come?”

  “Things are kind of perfect here. You’re an animated figure now. Besides the missing freckles, you also don’t have…” Rory hesitates. “Bones.”

  “Good grief!” I squeeze my wrist. My fingers just sort of pass through it. “But how did this happen?”

  “I’m not sure. Does it matter?” Rory asks.

  “Is…is this like…uh, Peter Pan and believing in fairies when Tinker Bell was—”

  “Her!” Rory nearly explodes. “Do you see any wings around here?” She pats her shoulders. “Honestly, Ryder.”

  This virtual world is a lovely place. I look up and see the stars.

  “That’s Cygnus the Swan. The star in the end of its tail is Deneb. I know a lot about stars,” Rory says.

  “I know you do,” I reply. “I don’t see many stars because of the smog in Los Angeles.”

  “Smog? Is it kind of like barf?”

  I scratch my head. “I never thought of it that way. But yeah! Air barf. It’s dirty air from cars and factory pollution.”

  “Maybe ‘smarf’ is a better word,” Rory says, and we both laugh.

  “There’s no smog in Deadwood, and when I visit Granny we go up on her roof and look at the stars.”

  “Oh, lovely!”

  “But so is this. This is really lovely,” I say, gazing up at the sky.

  “Your mum painted every one of those stars, Ryder. She was very particular about the stars.”

  “I know,” I say softly. It feels sort of strange, but I’m beginning to realize that Rory knows almost as much about Mom as I do. Of course, when I was in day care or school, Mom was at Starlight Studios working on Rory. Rory had Mom during the day. Yikes, she might have even spent more time with my mom than I did. Should I feel…jealous? Nope. I just want to see this place that Mom created and went to every day. I want to see Ecalpon!

  “Can you show me around? This is so cool. These stars and the house. Where is the castle of that dopey prince—Prince Thunderdolt Lowenbrow? Comic relief, Mom always said. That’s why she invented him for the series. She said every story needs a fool as much as a villain.”

  “Hmmm…that is probably true.” I can tell Rory is a little bit uncomfortable with what I just said. I worry that I’ve insulted her somehow.

  “No offense,” I say quickly.

  “Oh, no, none taken.” But I can see that something is troubling her.

  “Rory? What’s wrong?”

  “Ryder, there are a couple of things you have to understand.”

  “Sure. Tell me.”

  “Well, no one could see me or hear me when I came to you in the real world. But I think that it’s not going to be the same for you here. You’ve become sort of one of us. You’ve become a character.”

  Character. It’s a bit like trying on a new set of clothes or maybe even a new body. I have to think about it for a minute, or maybe two minutes. Rory is patient.

  “But, Rory, when you crossed over to my world, you became a human and no one could see you except me. Right?”

  “Yes. But believe me, they will see you here.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you…you, Ryder Eloise Holmsby, are the inspiration for me and the entire show. They’re going to recognize you. It’s not a secret here. And people here will be able to see you and hear you, and know that you’re the original and the source of our world.”

  I’m trying my best to understand. It’s a huge idea. She takes a step closer.

  “Ryder, what the animators create they see in their imaginations. They design it, draw it, and enter it all into the computer. But at the same time, they can’t imagine these characters ever becoming real. They might just throw up their hands and their pens and their brushes—and computer tools—and say to themselves, ‘If the character is real, then I am just a reporter, not an artist.’ Animators like Cassie Simon are artists, and all the rest who work on the series and the movie would think they were less creative if I actually existed outside of Ecalpon. Only the inspiration gets to exist in the so-called real world. Not the make-believe character. The door is shut to us.”

  “But you opened that door. That’s strange. It’s all strange,” I say.

  “That’s the truth. And truth is stranger than fiction, at least the fiction that the animators make up.” I look at Rory and think, She knows so much, including famous sayings like “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say slowly. “I understand. I’ll behave myself when you introduce me to your parents and all.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to behave yourself that much.” She pauses and her eyes crinkle up just the way mine do when I think of something funny. “If you behave too well, they won’t believe you’re me.”

  Confusing? My head is spinning.

  The countryside is bright with the silvery light of the risen moon, and the Witch of Wenham is peering through her telescope. “Two,” she mutters. “Two of those despicable little girls!” She addresses a lizard and narrows her yellowish eyes. “How do you explain it, Jeeves?” The lizard Jeeves is an ugly creature about the size of a cat. He purrs like a cat as well. His incandescent eyes flash periodically, revealing a peculiar blue vertical slit.

  “Cat got your tongue?” She licks her lips, and Jeeves notices, perhaps for the first time, that her tongue is exceedingly long for a human character. His is long—but he’s a reptile. “Mind that tongue, Jeeves, or I might trade you in for a vampire bat. Always fancied one—a can-do kind of butler. Not like you. One that can fly, you know.”

  “Indeed, madam.”

  “But back to these vile little girls. What is the meaning of all this? How did this one cross over?”

  “I can’t explain it, madam. It’s definitely off script.”

  “Off script, on script, I’m sick of scripts. I thought I was supposed to be able to turn that dratted owl into gold.”

  “Yes, madam. But they rewrite the scripts all the time. In the real world it’s a crime against the environment to kill an owl.”

  “I was just turning it into gold.”

  “Perhaps a toad would have better suited.”

  “Toads? No thanks.” She snorts. “Why don’t I get to do anything I want to do?”

  Jeeves groans. “We don’t have a choice, no free will, madam.” He has explained this a thousand times.

  “I don’t believe that, Jeeves! Rory chose to cross over, and now this little creep, the original, has crossed back. If that’s not free will, what is?”

  The lizard is stumped.

  “Jeeves!” the witch snaps. “Do what you do best.”

  “And what is that, madam?”

  “Slither! You are my eyes and ears. My spy. Find out all you can. Those girls are up to no good. I think they’re trying to change the script.”

  “Well, that might be good. No one seems very happy with these new developments. Rory’s engagement to the prin
ce and all that.”

  “No one?” A bristly eyebrow hikes up toward a wart on the witch’s forehead.

  “Uh, maybe Bethilda. She always liked the idea of serving a princess.”

  “Just Bethilda?” the witch says. “You foolish reptile. I like the script. I have dreams too.”

  “What dreams, madam?”

  “For Byogen.”

  “Your daughter, Byogen.”

  “You know what ‘Byogen’ means in the old language of Ecalpon?”

  “Bliss,” Jeeves says softly.

  I can tell Ryder is confused. And of course I’m really nervous because I haven’t told her yet about the plans for Bliss to be crowned princess at Starlight Land, the Starlight Studios amusement park, at the premiere of Glo-Rory-Us. I’m afraid she’ll have a heart attack. Luckily, I can delay breaking the news. Ryder really wants a tour of Ecalpon.

  The stars are beginning to fade and dawn is breaking when we start off. On the path to the barnyard, we see Bethilda with her wicker basket, going to collect eggs from the chicken house.

  “Oh, look, Bethilda!” Ryder whispers. “Bethilda the servant, right?

  “Yeah.” I’m wondering if she’ll see the resemblance to Granny. I’m also praying that Bethilda doesn’t see us and start to curtsy. I whisper to Ryder, “You know, Bethilda is a compulsive curtsyer.”

  “No kidding. I wonder why?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Oh my goodness!” Bethilda says, and starts to curtsy. I’m standing behind Ryder and I shake my head and mouth No! at Bethilda. She sees, makes a very good recovery and tips her bonnet at us instead. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to finally meet you, Ryder. The inspiration! I can’t quite believe you came. Was it a hard crossing, dear?”

  “No, not really,” Ryder replies.

  “Well now,” Bethilda says. “I must run along to the chicken coop and get the eggs while they are nice and warm. Nothing like a fresh, warm egg.”

  “Bye,” Ryder says. “So nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Bethilda says, and trots off.

  “Why are you looking at me that way, Rory?”

  “Oh, no reason,” I say. I can’t believe she doesn’t notice Bethilda’s resemblance to her granny. “Does she remind you of anybody?”

  “No, not in the least.”

  “Do you remember that she had a gap in her teeth before?”

  “Did she? Oh, yes. Now that you mention it, I do. Guess she got her teeth fixed.”

  “Guess so,” I reply vaguely, but I can’t help thinking that there’s a mysterious “gap” in Ryder’s eyes. Why can’t she see the similarity between Bethilda and Granny Ryder? I have only seen pictures of Granny Ryder, and I can see it!

  “Oh, you know who I’d love to see?” Ryder says.

  “Who?”

  “Calamity!”

  “The horse?” This is hopeful. Maybe she does see the resemblance and that’s what made her think of Calamity.

  But then she says, “You have to ride Calamity, since there isn’t a Granny character. I mean, how could there ever be another Granny!”

  I want to say, Well, there is another you, and it’s me. But I don’t.

  —

  Mum and Da are already out and on their way to the Coddington market with the new batch of piglets. Ryder can meet them later. “I’ll introduce you to the neighbors.”

  “I’d love to meet that dopey Prince Thunderdolt Lowenbrow.”

  “Okay, let’s go!”

  Sooner or later I’m going to have to tell her about Bliss and the coronation. But for now I welcome any delay—even a visit to Prince Thunderdolt Lowenbrow.

  Just before we reach the castle, a barn owl swoops down and perches on my shoulder.

  “Cool,” Ryder says. “It’s the owl the Witch of Wenham tried to turn into gold! You rescued her!”

  “Yes, she is very grateful.”

  “She should be! Do you think she would perch on me?” Ryder says.

  “Offer her your arm and we’ll see,” I tell her. Ryder sticks out her arm. The owl immediately hops onto it and climbs to her shoulder. Ryder turns around to look at the bird, and they seem to lock gazes for just a second. I can see something clicking in Ryder’s brain. The owl flies off and Ryder tips her head, watching, until the owl is swallowed by the night.

  “She’s so pretty! Wish she’d hung around,” Ryder says.

  “Well, you know, she was only in that one episode. Probably production is short on sketches for her.”

  —

  When we get to the castle gates, the guard comes out and says, “I wouldn’t advise interrupting him, Your…” Don’t say it! I think. The H word, as in “Highness.” It hasn’t happened yet. I grab Ryder’s hand and we rush past the guard and a footman about to bow, and then a scullery maid collapses in an awkward curtsy. Oh dear, is there such a malady as Knee-Jerk Curtsy Syndrome? Every palace servant we pass is ready to bow, scrape, and curtsy as Ryder and I go by.

  “I would like to see the prince, please,” I say to his personal steward, Hendrik, who seems slightly alarmed by the two of us.

  “And this is?” he whispers, and cocks his head with an expression of near disbelief. Then he coughs slightly, almost apologetically. “For security measures, might I see her”—he drops his voice—“TM?”

  “What?” shrieks Ryder. “This is worse than airport security. TM? What’s that? I’m not carrying liquids, metal, or—”

  “Calm down,” I say.

  “What the heck is a TM?”

  “Trademark,” I answer.

  “But I’m the real thing.”

  “The real thing!” Hendrik repeats. His voice quavers, as if he has just stumbled into a horror movie.

  “Yes, the inspiration. Now please let us through.”

  “Let me warn you the prince is in the Glower Tower.”

  “Again?” I say. “What is it now?”

  “I’d rather not say.” Hendrik looks embarrassed.

  We walk up the spiraling staircase of the east tower. Halfway up I start thinking, Maybe I better begin to tell Ryder about Bliss. I stop and look at her very seriously.

  “Ryder, I have to tell you something.”

  “Don’t worry, I know this prince is not the sharpest blade in the drawer.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, with this coronation and me becoming a princess…”

  “It ain’t gonna happen!”

  “We can hope. But there’s some possibly good news—and then there’s bad news.”

  “Bad news first,” Ryder says.

  “So you know about the coronation.”

  “Yep. And if it happens, they’re going to have to find someone taller than me, with long, straight hair and a skinny, skinny waist.”

  “They have, Ryder.”

  “They have?”

  “Who?”

  “Bliss,” I say.

  “Bliss!” she shrieks. Then, in a weak voice, “So what’s the good news?”

  “I’m not marrying you! That’s the good news.” Prince Thunderdolt comes blasting out of his tower, wearing a lab coat and holding a test tube. I’ve never seen him dressed this way. “No way, José. And don’t tell me that I have to grow up, like my dad does,” the prince blurts out.

  Ryder and I look at each other with our eyebrows raised.

  “So this is the Glower Tower?” Rory asks as I look around. No princely trappings at all, but shelves and shelves of books and what looks like a primitive microscope and little glass tubes filled with mysterious liquids. “You’re not working with the Witch of Wenham, are you?” Rory asks.

  “That quack. Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t believe in that garbage, do you?” He begins muttering under his breath: “Idiot woman with her charms and spells and little magical cakes. Not science!” There is something about the way he speaks that is vaguely familiar, but it’s at odds with the way he looks—chubby and sort o
f, uh, dare I say Neanderthalish? He has a prominent brow, thus the name Lowenbrow, and buckteeth. Orthodontia desperately needed. But there’s a sparkle in his eyes that suggests he’s not dumb at all. The sparkle is familiar. Someone I know. Not Penelope, although his eyes are the same color as hers.

  He’s completely absorbed with orange fluid bubbling in a beaker over a small flame. I wander around.

  “Don’t touch anything!” he shouts.

  “Just looking.” Many of the books have titles in curious alphabets.

  “What’s this?” I point at one ancient tome and turn around. “I can’t read the writing. It sort of looks like…”

  He removes the bubbling beaker from the flame and places it in a bowl of water to cool. He squints at the book and then walks over. “Hebrew,” he says. “Duh!”

  Duh! Knock me over with a feather! Remove the chubbiness and lift the heavy brow an inch or two and there he is! “You’re Eli Weckstein!” I blurt out. “Is this your…your Torah portion?”

  “Does that look like a Torah to you? No way. It’s one of the great Jewish scholar Maimonides’s few books on mathematics—conics, to be exact.”

  “Con-what?” Rory and I say.

  “Conics. It’s a part of analytic geometry. Deals with three types of cones—hyperbolas, parabolas, ellipses. Got it?”

  “Uh—sure,” Rory and I both say. But of course we don’t get anything.

  “But you’re supposed to be dumb. I mean, Thunderdolt Lowenbrow,” I say.

  “Yep, I know. But guess what?”

  “What? “

  “I have a secret life,” he says, with a trace of smugness.

  I’m staring at him really hard. With each passing second, somehow he looks more and more like Eli Weckstein. “Did my mom know? About your secret life?”

  “I think so.” He smiles. The sparkle in his eyes becomes a glitter. Nothing wrong in having lots of dreams, sweetie. Mom’s words come back to me now. Eli Thunderdolt Lowenbrow Weckstein certainly fits into her theory of multiple dreams.

  “Does your dad know?”

  “Of course not.” He looks around at his lab. “They don’t know what I do here. They think I come up here to moan and groan when I don’t want to do ‘princely things’ like hunt and joust and…”