Wizard for Hire, Page 2

  Ozzy gathered some food and walked through the maze of boxes on the main floor, making his way to the starry stairs. He could see the small black stars engraved into the fronts of all twenty steps. Climbing to his attic room always made him feel like he was ascending to the heavens. He grabbed the wooden ball on the top of the newel post and pulled himself forward. As he did, his foot slipped on the edge of the stair and he fell forward. He landed on his stomach and hit his head against the fifth stair.

  His eyes saw additional stars.

  He turned and sat up on the third stair. Glancing down to assess his condition, he noticed that he was holding the round wooden ball from the top of the newel post.

  Ozzy looked at the wooden knob. It was about the size of a tennis ball, with a base like the bottom of a lightbulb. At the end of the base, however, there was a two-inch metal rod sticking out. The end of the rod was shaped like an eight-pointed star. Ozzy turned his head as he sat on the third step and looked at the stars on the stairs.

  “I wonder . . . ,” he said.

  He turned further and pressed the end of the metal star up against one of the shapes engraved on the first step. The size and design matched the painted stars.

  He studied the object in his hand.

  Ozzy felt the stars stamped on the front of the first and second stairs. They were all solid and simple. He felt the stars on the front of the third step. Two stars over from the right edge, his fingers detected a slight difference. This star felt different than the others, and when he pushed on it there was a very slight give.

  Ozzy placed the tip of the metal key over the star; it lined up perfectly. He carefully pushed the rod right into the stair.

  With almost no effort, the strange key slid in.

  Ozzy let go and took a moment to collect himself. He grabbed the wooden ball and turned it. There was a soft clicking noise followed by the top of the third step popping open. It rose to reveal a hidden storage area as large as the step itself.

  “Whoa.”

  Inside the stair there was a carton about the size of a shoe box. He pulled it out and saw that the lid was taped shut. He set the box on the second stair. The boy felt around on the rest of the stairs but he could find no other stars that felt any different.

  Gathering the box under his arm, he quickly climbed up to his room.

  The small attic space was cozy and tucked away. Some tree branches had begun to grow into the walls and curl through the wood, and like other parts of the house, it seemed to only add to the general enchantment of the place. Ozzy’s bed was soft; there was a small wooden nightstand next to it. In one corner of the room was a cloth-­covered chair; books were scattered everywhere. Any book he had read had been brought up and stacked onto one of the many piles. His bed was cocooned by all of them. The room had one single round window that squeaked mightily whenever it was opened.

  Ozzy set the box on his bed and lit a candle. The small flame illuminated his room nicely. He sat on his bed and put the container on his lap.

  Moving it around, he studied each side. It was made of a hard, dark material—not rubber, not metal, but something in between. The lid was like a shoebox and was sealed with thick grey tape. Written in marker on top of the box was the word Clark.

  Ozzy grabbed a small pocketknife he kept on his nightstand and carefully sliced the tape open. Then, with more excitement than he had felt in a while, he grasped the edge of the lid and pulled it open.

  Ozzy smiled.

  Inside the box was an old cassette player. It was wide and long and had a cassette tape already in it. There were six buttons and a six-inch square of silver painted on the top of it. Toffy was written in gold marker across the bottom of it. Having no idea what a cassette tape was, much less a cassette player, Ozzy pulled the machine out of the box and stared at it in awe. Beneath it in the box there were a dozen carefully stacked cassette tapes.

  As interesting as the small machine was, the box held something Ozzy thought was far more intriguing. Lying there on top of the cassette tapes was what looked to be a black bird. Ozzy reached in and gently lifted the creature. It was lighter than he’d expected; its wings were an odd sort of plastic fitted between thin wires. It had a tail of tin and a golden beak. Its feet were sculpted and each talon was tipped with copper. Its two eyes were shut and attached to its round head. Wire-like feathers stuck out the top. The body of the bird was about five inches long and cylindrical.

  Ozzy studied every inch of it, looking for a button to push or a switch to turn on. There were none. Like the cassette machine, the bird had a wide line of silver painted along its back.

  “Brilliant.”

  Ozzy had no idea what it really might be, but he was happy he had found it. Something with a face to keep inside and near him. Clinging to the bird with one hand, he played with the cassette player with the other. Even after figuring out how to get the tapes in and out, pressing play, and shaking it a little, nothing happened. Still, he kept trying to make either the bird or the machine do something.

  A couple of hours later, Ozzy blew out the candle and lay back in his bed.

  It had been over five years since his parents had disappeared into the trees and this was the happiest he had been since. Sure, the things he’d found didn’t seem to do anything, but they had belonged to his parents, they had been important enough to hide, and one of them had a name. Clark.

  The next day the sun came out in full force. Like a skilled pugilist it pounded light through the branches and into shadows it had never broken up before. Water from the stream tasted better. The dried carrots from the basement seemed almost fresh—and Ozzy had Clark.

  All morning he had studied the cassette player and the bird. At noon he had taken them outside to observe them under the bright light.

  Ozzy set Clark on the porch step right next to him and focused on the machine.

  “There has to be a way to start this,” Ozzy told the lifeless bird.

  Clark didn’t reply.

  The cassette player was ten inches wide, twelve and a half inches long, and two inches tall. Ozzy knew this because he had measured it with a ruler. There was a square of silver paint on the top that matched the strip of silver on Clark’s back, and a plastic insert that popped up so you could slide tapes into it. It had six buttons—one for play, one for stop, one for record, one for fast-forward, one for reverse, and one for eject.

  Ozzy pressed eject and the tape popped up again. He pulled it out of the machine and twisted the two sprockets with his fingers. One side of the tape was labeled Approximations; a word Ozzy didn’t totally understand. The other side was labeled Results. Ozzy didn’t care what the tape contained; his only thought was that it might have the sound of his parents’ voices, and that to him seemed like a magical possibility.

  “I know machines need electricity to power them,” Ozzy said to Clark. “We used to have power when we lived in New York. It was a big place. The buildings there were taller than trees, and they had all kind of foods. Not just dried and canned things. I remember a man who sold huge pretzels from a cart in the park.”

  Ozzy put the cassette tape back into the player and looked up at the sunlight coming through the trees. He let the warmth soak into his skin and stayed still as it worked its way into his bones and being.

  The last place he had been with his parents was here on the now-overgrown steps. The plastic dragon he had been playing with was still in the stream behind the house, buried by years of dirt and leaves and sadness.

  “I don’t like thinking about them,” Ozzy said to himself. “I know I should, but every thought makes me feel horrible.”

  “I feel the same way—maybe worse.”

  Ozzy froze.

  Something beside him had spoken. He wanted to turn his head and look, but, like the moment his parents had been snatched away, he was paralyzed.

  “It’s ok
ay to feel bad,” the voice said. “And you shouldn’t be afraid to think of them.”

  “Who’s saying that?” Ozzy asked, still too scared to turn his head.

  “Me.”

  Ozzy felt a small prick on his left arm. He screamed and scurried backward up onto the porch and against the house.

  “Easy,” the voice said. “Panic isn’t a good look on you.”

  Something black hopped towards Ozzy—and he saw it was Clark. Except now the bird was standing on his feet, his wide dark eyes and wings open. He hopped closer to Ozzy and the boy howled again.

  “That scream isn’t going to make us any friends,” Clark said. “I mean, it shows you’re vulnerable, but is that a trait people like? You should be glad you’re in a forest and nobody can hear you.”

  “You’re . . . talking,” Ozzy said needlessly.

  “I think communication is important,” the bird reported. “And the sunlight seems to have restored my spirits. I have to admit it feels pretty good to be alive again.”

  Ozzy just stared.

  “Sorry . . . I should tell you that I feed off the light. Any light, really, but I guess it took some real sunshine to kick me back into gear.”

  Ozzy’s expression did not change.

  “I can tell you’re confused, so let me explain. The sun is a mass of incandescent gas, a giantic nuclear furnace. It sends its rays billions of miles through outer space and when they hit the silver strip on my back, they sort of juice me up.”

  “I know how the sun works,” Ozzy managed to say.

  “You do look smart. What happened to your finger?”

  Ozzy held up his hand and looked at his red finger. “It’s a birthmark.”

  “It’s cool looking,” Clark said. “The color reminds me of a bird I once knew. She was beautiful.”

  “Thanks, I guess. So you’ve been in that box the whole time?”

  “I remember being created, pieced together, and brought to life by a man who, judging by appearance, was your . . . father?”

  “My dad built you?”

  “Was Dr. Emmitt your dad?”

  “Yes—so you know him?”

  “I do. He built me to be a sounding board for his ideas. He would talk to me as he worked. We’re pretty close.”

  “What about my mom?”

  “The woman? I remember moments with her. She would come around while he was working. She was smart.”

  “Why did my dad pack you away? I mean, I never saw you.”

  “I don’t know. One day, he took me out of the light and my will faded. From there things are nothing but dark.”

  “Will you stay with me here?”

  Clark tilted his tiny metal head and gazed at Ozzy.

  “I mean . . . you won’t leave, right?”

  “Not unless you pack me away,” Clark said.

  “I won’t.”

  “Good, because I prefer the light. And I’m no trouble. I don’t even need food. Although I do enjoy the texture of chewing certain things. Oh yeah—I’m attracted to stuff made of metal. That’s not weird, is it? No, that can’t be weird. Do you mind if I take a short flight up into the sunshine?”

  “You’ll come back?”

  “Wow, you’ve got a real fear of abandonment. That’s sad. But don’t worry—I’ll always come back.”

  Clark flew up off the porch and straight up into the blue sky. He twisted and dove down, letting the wind catch his wings.

  True to his word, after a few minutes he turned and glided back down to the porch. He landed near Ozzy and then hopped up and perched himself on his right knee.

  Ozzy studied the bird in awe.

  “Are there any other birds around here?” Clark asked.

  “None like you. But there are lots of regular ones.”

  Clark brushed back the wiry feathers on his head with his wings. “I don’t mind regular. There was this sparrow I kind of liked outside of your dad’s work. We sort of had a thing, but we were divided by glass.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. There are plenty of birds in the sky. At least that’s what your dad used to tell me before he shut me down. Besides, my real love is metal.”

  Clark cocked his head and looked Ozzy in the eyes.

  “Why are you named Clark?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably because it’s a strong name?”

  “Right, but does it mean something? Like . . . Computerized Living Animal Research Bird?”

  “Then my name would be Clarb.”

  Ozzy continued to stare at Clark.

  “I bet I know what you’re thinking,” the bird said. “I’m actually good at assessing people’s thoughts. Your father built me to be observant. Besides, your grey eyes are an open book.”

  “Okay, then what am I thinking?”

  “You’re curious about how I work. You’re excited thinking about the silver paint on my back and how the sunlight brought me to life. I bet you’re also wondering if the light that brought me to life could do the same for the cassette machine.”

  Ozzy’s expression was one of amazement.

  “Go ahead and try it,” Clark said, pointing his wing toward the small machine sitting on the steps. “It’s been in the sun for a few minutes. It probably works now.”

  Ozzy scooted over to the machine and touched it. It was warm from the sun. He looked at Clark and then reached out and pressed play. There was a slight whirring, followed by the sound of Ozzy’s father’s voice.

  “In times of suspicion and ignorance, people turn to superstition to answer their problems. We must help those who do so see the error of their ways.”

  Ozzy didn’t want to, but he began to cry. Clark, being both observant and compassionate, tried to do the same. Unfortunately, it’s difficult for birds to shed a tear, and trying to move his shoulders like Ozzy made him look like he’d been accidentally electrocuted.

  “I’ll just look sad,” Clark offered.

  Ozzy played tape after tape. Most of them were filled with his father talking about the human brain and experiments he was doing at the university where he taught. He listed different test and failures. Some of the tapes were boring, but Ozzy’s favorite was the one labeled WC SUBJECTS; it contained the stories of five different people who had done remarkably stupid things. Another tape was labeled BEN FOLDS FIVE. When he played that tape, he was surprised by the sound of music. It was exhilarating and filled his head with emotions he had never felt before.

  “What is this stuff?” Ozzy asked.

  “Um, music. You humans are always trying to sing things, but it’s us birds that do it best. Your father used to play this tape constantly.”

  I wanna be lonely. When seconds pass slowly, and years go flying by.

  The music filled the forest and caused Ozzy’s heart to simultaneously sink and soar. He listened to the entire cassette and then switched tapes and listened to his dad’s voice until the machine finally stopped, a few hours after the sun went down.

  The cloaked house became a much different place with Clark around. The bird needed light to live, but he could gather strength from the weak glow of a cloudy day. He also had the ability to store enough energy to keep himself active through most of the night. At times, he would need the assistance of candlelight to recharge. Or he would shut down for a few hours until the sun rose again. But as soon as he was placed in any light, he would always come alive once more.

  On sunny days Clark would fly off on long excursions and bring back news of birds he had seen and been rejected by. He would travel to the ocean and return with seashells. He would fly to the mountains and come back with pebbles and leaves. He would scout the forest and return to tell tales that Ozzy listened to carefully and with great interest.

  As much as Ozzy loved having Clark around, Ozzy was equally taken with the n
ew wonder of hearing his father’s voice. Most days he would spend hours listening to his dad talk about boring things like particle decay and brain peptides. Ozzy didn’t mind the topic because it was as if his father was there with him.

  He had listened to all the tapes. As he listened to the last one, he was thrilled to find that there was a brief instance of his mother’s voice. She said only a few words, but it was magic. She had come in as Ozzy’s father was recording, and before he shut off the machine, she said, “Do you think you might like to take a break? Ozzy’s awake and asking for you.”

  The recording stopped after that.

  “I’m guessing he took a break,” Clark said.

  “Yeah, I like to think he took a break to be with me.”

  “You know what I think you’ve been thinking?” the bird asked.

  “What?” Ozzy said.

  “That most parents don’t just get taken. I mean, I bet you think it’s unusual that your parents would move out here where there’s no electricity and no other people and then just be snatched up. They must have had to hike to even get here. How did they transport all of these boxes? No offense, but your house looks like a storage unit on the inside.”

  “I don’t know,” Ozzy replied.

  “Don’t you think that maybe we should figure out a few things? Are we just going to stay here forever?”

  “No. Someday I’ll have to leave to find my parents.”

  “What day is ‘someday’?”

  “I don’t know,” Ozzy answered honestly. “I’ve just always thought that I’d need to be older. I’m not ever sure what’s beyond the next mile of forest. I’ve seen pictures and read books, of course. J. K. Rowling does a pretty good job of describing Harry’s part of the world. But here? You keep finding shells at the ocean and you talk about seeing cars and people, but I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. For example—are dragons real?”