The Magician''s Key

  “You should do it,” said Carter, addressing them all. “You should go save your friends, just like you saved me from the Black Tower.”

  “We are not dragging you into the mountains,” said Lukas.

  “You don’t have to,” said Carter. “I’ll…I’ll keep going south along the road. I can go to Magician’s Landing alone. I want to.”

  “Forget it,” said Lukas.

  “You should listen to the boy,” said Leetha. “If you are worried about him, then sending him south is the safest choice. The road leads into the Deep Forest, and to my princess’s castle.”

  “The Deep Forest?” said Paul. “What do you think your elf friends will do with him when they find him wandering their forest? String him up by one foot or two?”

  “They won’t harm him if I’m with him,” said Leetha.

  Lukas paused. “What are you saying, Leetha?”

  “I will go with Carter to the castle. There, we can ask the Princess for help; she can send a team of outriders with us to Magician’s Landing. We will find the Piper’s magic flute.”

  Emilie scoffed. “You asked your princess for help once, remember?”

  Leetha turned her eyes on Emilie, and Carter felt the tension between the two girls. The elf princess was a sore spot for Emilie, though Carter didn’t know why. “Things have changed since then,” said Leetha.

  “What? Now that the Piper’s free she’ll help?” said Emilie. “A little late, I think.”

  “The Peddler’s dead,” said Lukas. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Leetha slowly nodded. “There was a bond between the Peddler and the Princess. Not exactly friendship but respect. They were allies, and she did not come to his aid.”

  Thus far Carter had only ever witnessed two emotions in the elf girl—calm and laughter. But now a flicker of something new passed across her face, something darker, and less human.

  “A broken promise is powerful magic among my kind,” said Leetha. “The Princess will have to help us now.”

  “Then we’ll all go to the Princess,” said Lukas. “We’ll stay with Carter.”

  “What?” said Paul, standing up. “Didn’t you hear what Leetha just said? She’ll take him there; all they have to do is follow the road. There’s no need for us to go, too.”

  Lukas stood now, too, and faced Paul, his expression serious. “I made Max a promise to keep her brother safe.”

  “And what about your promise to us?” said Paul. “What about your promise as Eldest Boy to keep New Hamelin safe?”

  “That’s Finn’s responsibility now.”

  “No, it’s yours. You’re Eldest Boy whether you want to be or not. Not only are our friends being used as slaves, but there’s a new rat king, and you can’t tell me that this one’s going to sit by and not try that village wall again. Maybe the next true night. He might have already done it! The whole village might be in irons for all we know and you’re worried about Carter?”

  “I didn’t ask to be Eldest Boy!” shouted Lukas. “I never wanted it!”

  “Who cares?” said Paul. “You are. It’s your responsibility. You know, I’ve done a lot of silly things and I may get into trouble, but I’ve never tried to run away. Stop using Carter as an excuse because you’re afraid to go back.”

  Suddenly Lukas turned around and punched Paul. Paul fell backward onto his butt, and the rest of them sat in stunned silence as he rolled to a sitting position and rubbed his jaw.

  Lukas looked aghast at what he’d done. “Paul, I’m sorry,” he said, offering the boy a hand up. “I didn’t mean—”

  Before Lukas could finish his apology, Paul grabbed his hand and yanked him to the ground. Then the two boys were rolling through the dirt, punching and cursing at each other. Leetha was laughing and Bandybulb covered his eyes and Carter thought they looked just like kids in a schoolyard fight.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Emilie, and she reached down to pull the two boys apart. Someone, and it was lucky for that person that no one could say exactly who, threw back a fist to line up a punch…and hit Emilie square in the nose instead.

  The girl stumbled backward but did not fall. If there had been silence when Lukas had struck Paul, it seemed that time itself had taken a pause now. Even Leetha’s laughter dried up in an instant, and the elf girl looked at Emilie, wide-eyed and almost fearful.

  The two brawling boys leaped off each other and scrambled to their feet, tripping over each other in a race to apologize.

  Emilie gingerly examined her nose as she blinked away tears. “You boys, ow!” She sighed. “Well, it does not appear to be broken.”

  Lukas and Paul stood at attention, their heads bowed. Carter had never seen such looks of terror on their faces, not even when they’d fought the rats.

  “Emilie—” Lukas began, but Emilie cut him off with a wave of her hand.

  “You be quiet,” she said. “And you stop your smirking, Paul.”

  “But I’m not!” protested Paul.

  “You are on the inside, so stop it,” said Emilie. “Now, if all your empty-headed foolishness is done for the day, I want to hear from the one person that really matters in this debate. Carter, what do you want to do?”

  The sudden shift of everyone’s attention back to him was startling, but Carter took a breath and began. “I think Paul’s right.”

  “Now wait a minute,” said Lukas, but Emilie shushed him again.

  “I don’t agree with everything he said,” added Carter. “But I do think you have a responsibility to New Hamelin that is bigger than your promise to my sister. You all saved me from the Black Tower. That’s enough. And honestly, I’m tired of being treated like I’m just a kid, by a bunch of other kids!

  “I’m going south to Magician’s Landing,” he continued. “Leetha said she’d show me the way. I can’t stop the rest of you from coming with me, but I think it would be a big mistake. You rescued me already; now there are other people who need your help.”

  Lukas stared at Carter for a moment. “Paul? Can you find a way across the moors west to the river?”

  The other boy nodded. “And beyond into New Hamelin, or north to the mountains.”

  Lukas walked over and put a hand on Carter’s shoulder. “I told you once that you reminded me of my best friend back in old Hamelin. It’s true, and never so much so as right now.”

  “Thanks,” said Carter.

  “Emilie,” said Lukas, “you can go with us or stay with Carter.”

  “I’m following Paul,” she replied. Then, suddenly blushing, she quickly added, “Someone needs to keep him out of trouble.”

  “That settles it, then,” said Lukas. “After lunch we’ll say our goodbyes and head west. Carter and Leetha will go south to the Princess. Leetha, after you’ve found the pipe, if you can convince her…well, I think we could use help in New Hamelin. Our people are in trouble.”

  Leetha nodded. “I will do what I can. But I, at least, will come. I’ve grown quite fond of watching you humans quarrel.”

  “And, Carter,” said Lukas. “We will meet again.”

  Carter smiled and nodded, but he found he couldn’t quite get the words out to say a proper goodbye. He was too close to crying, and the last thing he wanted them to see was his tears. So he was shocked to hear sobs coming from nearby.

  Bandybulb was crying noisily into a small rag that already needed a good washing.

  “You’re taking him with you, right?” asked Paul. “Please say you’re taking him with you.”

  Grudgingly, Carter nodded, and Bandybulb let out a little shout of joy. Then the rest of them packed their things. Lukas and Emilie took the lion’s share of the rations, since Leetha promised that she could hunt along the way. Bandybulb packed up a pile of small stones that he’d taken a liking to, wrapping them in the same snot-nosed rag he’d been using and tying the bundle to a small stick that he slung over his shoulder.

  Soon there was nothing left to do but accept Emilie’s hugs and the boys’
pats on the shoulder, and then Carter watched the three of them hike off into the wilderness, until their backs were mere dots in the distance, and then they were gone.

  “I was right, you know,” said Leetha, coming to stand next to him. “Size is relative, and you, Carter, are very tall today. Very tall indeed.”

  Carter didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned and put one foot in front of the other, and began walking south, with Leetha and Bandybulb by his side.

  Max sat in the passenger seat of their rented car and stared out at the decrepit old mill, supposed home of Vodnik the magician. The dilapidated building stood precariously on the bank of the Elbe River, not far from the German coast of the North Sea. The whole building seemed to lean away from the land, as if it might soon sag into the river. Someone had once tried to warm the place up by adding a coat of paint—Max could still see the turquoise flakes peeling in places—but it would take more than paint to make the building look anything less than desolate. A dock extended from the building past the river’s edge, where a great waterwheel turned with the slow draw of the river’s current. Max wondered with a shiver if there was a giant stone-grinding wheel somewhere inside. The image of the empty wheel grinding away by itself unnerved her, because there was something so terribly lonely about this place already. She’d learned in her travels with Mrs. Amsel that what little magic was left in the world hid in seemingly abandoned places, but this was often just a facade. Like the cobbler’s closed-up little shop, there was life inside. But this place wasn’t a facade. If there was magic here in this old mill, it wasn’t the kind that welcomed people. It was bitter and content to be alone.

  “What a place is this?” said Mrs. Amsel, peering over the steering wheel. The little woman could barely reach the pedals. “Perhaps the map is wrong.”

  “The map is never wrong,” said Max, but just this once she wished it would be. “Besides, doesn’t this creepy old building look exactly like the kind of place you’d expect to find this Vodnik guy? Also, I think our notorious magician drives a Prius.”

  Max pointed to a small car parked in the shade of the mill’s carport. “Someone’s home, at least.”

  “I want you to be very careful,” said Mrs. Amsel. “I think Vodnik is not to be trusted. Stay back and let me do the talking.”

  They got out of their car and trudged up the gravel driveway. A crow rested on a stump pecking at a piece of something nasty as it watched them approach. Since coming back from the Summer Isle, Max had decided she didn’t like crows. She didn’t like the way they looked at you—it was too…familiar. Like they knew something you didn’t.

  “Why don’t you go back to your roadkill, you stupid bird,” said Max, but the crow just kept staring as they passed by.

  When they got close, Max spotted someone sitting in the driver’s seat of the little parked car. It looked like a man with his head resting on the steering wheel.

  “Do you think it’s Vodnik?” whispered Max.

  “What’s he doing sitting in his car?” asked Mrs. Amsel.

  “One way to find out,” said Max, and before the housekeeper could stop her, she walked over to the car and rapped on the glass.

  Let Mrs. Amsel do the talking? thought Max. Right.

  The man’s head jerked up. Startled, he looked first at Max and then at Mrs. Amsel, and seemed to relax. When he got out of the car, Max saw he was broad-shouldered and dressed in well-worn work clothes, as if he’d just come off a shift doing construction work. His face was friendly, despite the worry lines etched there. He greeted them in German.

  “Do you speak any English?” asked Max.

  “English? Naa,” said the man, shrugging.

  “You see?” said Mrs. Amsel, shouldering her way past Max. “You let me do the talking.”

  Mrs. Amsel and the man spoke quietly for a few minutes. The man looked nervous, and he kept stealing glances at Max, but then Mrs. Amsel did something unexpected. She took off her kerchief, exposing her delicately pointed ears. For some reason, that seemed to calm the man, and suddenly he was talking quickly and with obvious emotion while Mrs. Amsel patted his arm reassuringly. All the while, Max paced impatiently. At least, back on the Summer Isle there was only one language, a magic language that everyone spoke, whether they realized it or not. Back there she didn’t have to rely on tiny housekeepers to translate.

  “So, I guess he’s not Vodnik,” Max called to Mrs. Amsel. At the mention of the magician’s name, the man gave a start. Mrs. Amsel shot Max a look, and went on talking.

  After a time, the man let out a long sigh and Mrs. Amsel gave him a hug. They exchanged a few more words before he got back into his car and drove away.

  “What was that about?” Max asked. “Who was that?”

  “Just a father worried about his daughter,” said Mrs. Amsel. “So worried that I think he was getting ready to do something foolish, but I hope I talked some sense into him.” She shook her head and glanced up at the darkened windows of the mill. “I think we should do as the man has done and drive away from this place and never return.”

  “What?” said Max. “After coming all this way?”

  “This Vodnik is not a good person,” said Mrs. Amsel. “That man—his name is Jon Wick—came here to get passage for his wife and daughter to America. He said that Vodnik has a key that will unlock the last door to the Summer Isle—”

  “You see?” said Max, cutting her off. “It’s true, then! We came to the right person.”

  “No!” said Mrs. Amsel. “You did not let me finish. I don’t know how, but I think Vodnik was going to do something awful to that poor man.”

  But Max was no longer listening. There was a door to the Summer Isle and there was a key, and that was all that mattered. She ignored Mrs. Amsel’s protests as she ran back around to the front of the mill, and pounded on the door.

  Mrs. Amsel came trailing after her. “Maxine!” she called in a fierce whisper. “You must stop and listen to me. This is a very bad idea!”

  Nobody called her Maxine. She didn’t care how angry the woman was—Max hated that name. She knocked on the door again. Harder.

  Mrs. Amsel reached her just as the door started to creak open. Too late now, thought Max.

  The front door of the old river mill opened to reveal a tall man, so gaunt that his paper-white skin stretched taut over his protruding cheekbones. He gazed out the doorway with cloudy, unfocused eyes.

  And the smell. He smelled like milk curdling in the sun.

  The gaunt man said nothing, and Max wasn’t even sure at first if he was aware they were there. But then he grunted and cocked his head slowly toward them.

  “Oh!” squeaked Mrs. Amsel as the unblinking eyes came to rest on her. “So sorry! Wrong house…We’ll be on our way.”

  The little woman tugged on Max’s arm, but Max yanked it back. She dared to look up into the man’s dead eyes. “We’re looking for Vodnik the magician. Does he live here?”

  The man continued to stare.

  “Come on—let’s go,” whispered Mrs. Amsel.

  Without a word, the man turned and walked back inside. But he left the door wide open, which Max took to be an invitation. She followed him, with Mrs. Amsel reluctantly at her side.

  The front door opened onto a spacious hall. It must have been some kind of work floor back before the mill had turned derelict. Max thought she could hear the grindstone turning in the distance. Or perhaps she just imagined it, because the mood inside this place made it easy to let your fears run away with you. Someone had turned the front room into a kind of museum. Woodcuts hung along the walls, and bits of broken statuary, all of which looked very old, were displayed on pillars lining the hall. It was hard to tell what the statues had once been, but Max thought she could make out a large claw here, part of a leering face there. The woodcuts were even more disturbing. Most were waterfront scenes of lakes and rivers, and all of them showed drownings. In one, sailors tried in vain to swim to shore as the river pulled them under. In
another, a witch was tied and being dunked into a pond by angry villagers. They added to the oppressive ghoulishness of the place.

  “Just to be safe,” whispered Max, “let’s stay away from the river. Far, far away.”

  Mrs. Amsel nodded as she inspected one of the ancient etchings. It depicted a scraggly-bearded man sitting atop a waterwheel. He was holding several jars in his arms and chatting with a horned devil. “There’s writing on this one.”

  “Can you read it?”

  Mrs. Amsel slipped on her reading glasses. “Vodyanoi.”

  “Sounds Russian.”

  Meanwhile, their gaunt butler—at least that’s how Max had started thinking of him—began a slow climb up a flight of steps at the end of the hall. “Let’s follow him,” she said, taking the reluctant Mrs. Amsel by the hand.

  The stairs groaned as the butler dragged himself step by step. Halfway up, he paused, as if he’d forgotten what he was doing. He just stood there for a long moment, unmoving.

  Finally, Max spoke up. “Excuse me, but were you taking us to see Vodnik?”

  The sound of her voice seemed to bring the man back to life, and he resumed his halting climb. Several minutes later, they found themselves at the end of a long hallway in front of a closed door. The butler moved like his arms and legs were made of rusty wire, but he eventually knocked on the door. Three loud raps.

  No one answered, and the butler didn’t bother knocking again. Instead, he turned and, without sparing Max and Mrs. Amsel another glance, began the slow trek back down the hallway to the stairs.

  “This is getting ridiculous,” said Max, and she went ahead and knocked again. When there was still no answer, she tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked.

  It was a plain office, with a single desk and a tall-backed chair behind it. There were no decorations, and the only other furniture was a small table against the far wall. Atop the table was some kind of antique box.

  “No one here,” said Mrs. Amsel, poking her head into the doorway but no farther. “Let’s go.”

  “Just hold on,” said Max, and she started to explore the room. “Keep a lookout in case he comes back.”