“Your brooch is it now? Whoa—I feel a bit queasy…you put something in my drink, you little grub!”
“What if I did? I could read on your face what you was planning, Tom Hustings. Thief.”
And then there was shouting, and several crashes, and loud bangs, as if heavy items of furniture were being overturned…then silence.
Liza said, “Quickly now. Let’s get you out of here.”
“But the door’s locked.” He looked at her. “Is there something you can do to get us out?”
“Me? I don’t have any magics will get you out of a locked room, boy.”
Bod crouched, and peered out through the keyhole. It was blocked; the key sat in the keyhole. Bod thought, then he smiled momentarily, and it lit his face like the flash of a lightbulb. He pulled a crumpled sheet of newspaper from a packing case, flattened it out as best he could, then pushed it underneath the door, leaving only a corner on his side of the doorway.
“What are you playing at?” asked Liza impatiently.
“I need something like a pencil. Only thinner…” he said. “Here we go.” And he took a thin paintbrush from the top of the desk, and pushed the brushless end into the lock, jiggled it, and pushed some more.
There was a muffled clunk as the key was pushed out, as it dropped from the lock onto the newspaper. Bod pulled the paper back under the door, now with the key sitting on it.
Liza laughed, delighted. “That’s wit, young man,” she said. “That’s wisdom.”
Bod put the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed open the storeroom door.
There were two men on the floor in the middle of the crowded antique shop. Furniture had indeed fallen; the place was a chaos of wrecked clocks and chairs, and in the midst of it the bulk of Tom Hustings lay, fallen on the smaller figure of Abanazer Bolger. Neither of them was moving.
“Are they dead?” asked Bod.
“No such luck,” said Liza.
On the floor beside the men was a brooch of glittering silver; a crimson-orange-banded stone, held in place with claws and with snake heads, and the expression on the snake heads was one of triumph and avarice and satisfaction.
Bod dropped the brooch into his pocket, where it sat beside the heavy glass paperweight, the paintbrush, and the little pot of paint.
“Take this too,” said Liza.
Bod looked at the black-edged card with the word Jack handwritten on one side. It disturbed him. There was something familiar about it, something that stirred old memories, something dangerous. “I don’t want it.”
“You can’t leave it here with them,” said Liza. “They were going to use it to hurt you.”
“I don’t want it,” said Bod. “It’s bad. Burn it.”
“No!” Liza gasped. “Don’t do that. You mustn’t do that.”
“Then I’ll give it to Silas,” said Bod. And he put the little card into an envelope, so he had to touch it as little as possible, and put the envelope into the inside pocket of his old gardening jacket beside his heart.
Two hundred miles away, the man Jack woke from his sleep, and sniffed the air. He walked downstairs.
“What is it?” asked his grandmother, stirring the contents of a big iron pot on the stove. “What’s got into you now?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Something’s happening. Something…interesting.” And then he licked his lips. “Smells tasty,” he said. “Very tasty.”
Lightning illuminated the cobbled street.
Bod hurried through the rain through the Old Town, always heading up the hill toward the graveyard. The gray day had become an early night while he was inside the storeroom, and it came as no surprise to him when a familiar shadow swirled beneath the streetlamps. Bod hesitated, and a flutter of night-black velvet resolved itself into man-shape.
Silas stood in front of him, arms folded. He strode forward impatiently.
“Well?” he said.
Bod said, “I’m sorry, Silas.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Bod,” Silas said, and he shook his head. “I’ve been looking for you since I woke. You have the smell of trouble all around you. And you know you’re not allowed to go out here, into the living world.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” There was rain on the boy’s face, running down like tears.
“First of all, we need to get you back to safety.” Silas reached down and enfolded the living child inside his cloak, and Bod felt the ground fall away beneath him.
“Silas,” he said.
Silas did not answer.
“I was a bit scared,” he said. “But I knew you’d come and get me if it got too bad. And Liza was there. She helped a lot.”
“Liza?” Silas’s voice was sharp.
“The witch. From the potter’s field.”
“And you say she helped you?”
“Yes. She especially helped me with my Fading. I think I can do it now.”
Silas grunted. “You can tell me all about it when we’re home.” And Bod was quiet until they landed beside the church. They went inside, into the empty hall, as the rain redoubled, splashing up from the puddles that covered the ground.
Bod produced the envelope containing the black-edged card. “Um,” he said. “I thought you should have this. Well, Liza did, really.”
Silas looked at it. Then he opened it, removed the card, stared at it, turned it over, and read Abanazer Bolger’s penciled note to himself, in tiny handwriting, explaining the precise manner of use of the card.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
Bod told him everything he could remember about the day. And at the end, Silas shook his head slowly, thoughtfully.
“Am I in trouble?” asked Bod.
“Nobody Owens,” said Silas. “You are indeed in trouble. However, I believe I shall leave it to your foster parents to administer whatever discipline and reproach they believe to be needed. In the meantime, I need to deal with this.”
The black-edged card vanished inside the velvet cloak, and then, in the manner of his kind, Silas was gone.
Bod pulled the jacket up over his head, and clambered up the slippery paths to the top of the hill, to the Frobisher vault, and then he went down, and down, and still farther down.
He dropped the brooch beside the goblet and the knife.
“Here you go,” he said. “All polished up. Looking pretty.”
IT COMES BACK, whispered the Sleer, with satisfaction in its smoke-tendril voice. IT ALWAYS COMES BACK.
The night had been long, but it was almost dawn.
Bod was walking, sleepily and a little gingerly, past the small tomb of the wonderfully named Miss Liberty Roach (What she spent is lost, what she gave away remains with her always. Reader, be charitable), past the final resting place of Harrison Westwood, Baker of this Parish, and his wives, Marion and Joan, to the potter’s field. Mr. and Mrs. Owens had died several hundred years before it had been decided that beating children was wrong, and Mr. Owens had, regretfully, that night, done what he saw as his duty, and Bod’s bottom stung like anything. Still, the look of worry on Mrs. Owens’s face had hurt Bod worse than any beating could have done.
He reached the iron railings that bounded the potter’s field, and slipped between them.
“Hullo?” he called. There was no answer. Not even an extra shadow in the hawthorn bush. “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble too,” he said.
Nothing.
He had replaced the jeans in the gardener’s hut—he was more comfortable in just his gray winding sheet—but he had kept the jacket. He liked having the pockets.
When he had gone to the shed to return the jeans, he had taken a small hand scythe from the wall where it hung, and with it he had attacked the nettle patch in the potter’s field, sending the nettles flying, slashing and gutting them till there was nothing but stinging stubble on the ground.
From his pocket he took the large glass paperweight, its insides a multitude of bright colors, along with the paintpot, and the paintbrush.
/>
He dipped the brush into the paint and carefully painted, in brown paint, on the surface of the paperweight, the letters
E H
and beneath them he wrote
We don’t forget
It was almost daylight. Bedtime, soon, and it would not be wise for him to be late to bed for some time to come.
He put the paperweight down on the ground that had once been a nettle patch, placed it in the place that he estimated her head would have been, and, pausing only to look at his handiwork for a moment, he went through the railings and made his way, rather less gingerly, back up the hill.
“Not bad,” said a pert voice from the potter’s field behind him. “Not bad at all.”
But when he turned to look, there was nobody there.
Instructions
Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never saw
before,
Say “please” before you open the latch,
go through,
walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the
green-painted front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat nothing.
However,
if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.
If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.
From the back garden you will be able to see the wild
wood.
The deep well you walk past leads down to Winter’s
realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.
Once through the garden you will be in the wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the undergrowth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman.
She may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle. Inside it
are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the
twelve months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December’s frost.
Trust the wolves, but do not tell them
where you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry.
The ferryman will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger, he
will be free to leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)
If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.
Do not be jealous of your sister:
know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble
from one’s lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.
Remember your name.
Do not lose hope—what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have
helped to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall)
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown)
Ride the gray wolf (hold tightly to his fur).
There is a worm at the heart of the tower;
that is why it will not stand.
When you reach the little house, the
place your journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden
gate you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
Or rest.
About the Author
NEIL GAIMAN is the author of the New York Times bestselling children’s book CORALINE and of the picture books THE WOLVES IN THE WALLS and THE DAY I SWAPPED MY DAD FOR TWO GOLDFISH, illustrated by Dave McKean. He wrote the script for the film MirrorMask and is also the author of critically acclaimed and award-winning novels and short stories for adults, as well as the Sandman series of graphic novels. Among his many awards are the World Fantasy Award, the Hugo Award, the Nebula Award, and the Bram Stoker Award. Originally from England, Gaiman now lives in the United States.
You can visit him online at www.mousecircus.com
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Other Books for Young Readers by
NEIL GAIMAN
Coraline
The Wolves in the Walls
The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish
By Neil Gaiman and Michael Reaves InterWorld
Credits
Jacket art © 2007 by Teddy Kristiansen
Jacket design by Hilary Zarycky
Copyright
M IS FOR MAGIC. Copyright © 2007 by Neil Gaiman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Microsoft Reader October 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-158282-0
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)
Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900
Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.uk.harpercollinsebooks.com
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com
Neil Gaiman, M Is for Magic
(Series: # )
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends