The Magician's Boy

  THE MAGICIAN’S BOY

  SUSAN COOPER

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  New York London Toronto Sedney

  2005 Susan Cooper

  2005 Serena Riglietti

  THE MAGICIAN’S BOY

  For Jack and the Revels with love

  —S. C.

  • • •

  A mio figlio Francesco, che mi guarda

  —S. R.

  THE MAGICIAN’S BOY

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2005 by Susan Cooper

  Illustrations copyright © 2005 by Serena Riglietti

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Book design by Ann Bobco

  The text for this book is set in Times New Roman.

  The illustrations for this book are rendered in pen and ink, watercolor, and colored pencils.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cooper, Susan, 1935-

  The magician’s boy / Susan Cooper.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: A Boy who works for a Magician meets familiar fairy tale characters when he is transported to the Land of Story in search of a missing puppet.

  ISBN 0-689-87622-X (hardcover)

  ISBN 13: 978-0-689-87622-6

  eISBN 978-1-439-10793-5

  [1. Fairy tales. 2. Characters in literature—Fiction. 3. Puppets—Fiction. 4. Puppet theater—Fiction. 5. Magicians—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ8.C7926Mag 2005

  [Fic]—dc22

  2004008549

  There was once a Boy who worked for a Magician. Every day he polished the Magician’s magic wands and the gold stars and moons on his great blue robe. He weeded the garden where the magic herbs grew, and crushed their seeds into powder for the Magician’s spells. He worked very hard indeed. But he wasn’t happy.

  More than anything in the world, the Boy wanted to learn magic—but the Magician would not teach him.

  The Boy fed the six white rabbits that lived in a hutch in the garden, but he was always startled when he saw the Magician pull one of them out of somebody’s hat. He washed the dishes in the kitchen, and watched enviously when the Magician picked up an empty jug and poured milk out of it. How did he do these things?

  “Master,” he begged, “teach me! Teach me magic!”

  But the Magician always said, “Not yet, Boy. Not till the time is right. Not yet.”

  When the Magician went out to perform, the Boy went with him, to help him on stage, and to catch any rabbits he might pull out of hats. The Boy loved those days, because then he had one really special job too.

  When the Magician performed, he always took with him a little puppet theatre in which he showed the play“Saint George and the Dragon”—and the Boy was allowed to operate the puppets. The Boy stood on a box behind the tiny stage, hidden by a curtain, and he pulled the puppets’ strings while the Magician told the story of the play.

  It was an odd little play. One of the people in it was Father Christmas, but all he had to do was introduce the other characters to the audience. These were the wicked Dragon, who loved fighting; the Turkish Knight, who fought the Dragon but could never beat him; and the Doctor, who was there in case anyone was wounded. And of course there was the hero, Saint George.

  The Boy was especially proud of the way he made Saint George kill the Dragon, at the end. The wounded Dragon staggered round in a circle, puffed out three clouds of white smoke, jumped up in the air and fell down dead. (The white smoke was really chalk dust, puffed by the Boy from a little pipe.) The watching children always cheered at this, so the Boy was pleased. It wasn’t magic, but it was the next best thing.

  One Christmas, the Magician and the Boy went to perform at a family party given by a Mr. and Mrs. Pennywinkle, in a grand stone house as big as a castle.

  “Mr. Pennywinkle is a very important person!” said the Magician, frowning at the Boy. “Everything must be perfect!”

  The Magician was a very tall man, with a beaky nose, black eyebrows like doormats, and a bristly mustache. He was alarming when he frowned.

  The Boy said, “Yes, Master! Of course!” He gave the magic wands an extra polish, he shampooed the rabbits, and he repainted the trees on the back wall of the puppet theatre stage.

  And off they went to the party.

  At the party, Mr. and Mrs. Pennywinkle’s house was full of light and music, and the Magician’s audience was full of children. They gasped and clapped at the Magician’s tricks, especially when he took six eggs one by one out of Mr. Pennywinkle’s bow tie, broke them into Mrs. Pennywinkle’s purse, pulled out a Christmas cake and showed the purse to be perfectly empty, clean and dry.

  I wish I could do that! thought the Boy, as he swept up the eggshells.

  But it was time for the play.

  “Now for the terrifying story of ‘Saint George and the Dragon’!” boomed the Magician, and he pulled back the curtain covering the stage of the little theatre. Behind the stage the Boy stood, hidden, ready to pull the puppets’ strings.

  “To begin, let us meet our characters!” cried the Magician. “First—Father Christmas!”

  The children all cheered, as the unseen Boy made the fat little Father Christmas puppet turn head over heels onstage, and bow to them.

  “The Dragon!”

  Quickly the Boy hung the Father Christmas puppet on his hook, and took the bright green Dragon from the row of hanging puppets. He pulled the strings to make the Dragon run onstage.

  The children shouted and hissed. The Boy made the Dragon open its fearsome red jaws at them, and huff out a puff of white smoke.

  The children howled with joy.

  “Saint George!” cried the Magician, and the Boy hastily hung up the Dragon puppet and reached for the bold little figure of Saint George, with his sword and shield, and the red cross on his white tunic.

  But the Saint George puppet wasn’t there.

  The other puppets all hung from their strings behind the stage, waiting. There was Father Christmas, and the Turkish Knight with his curving sword, and the black-coated Doctor. But there was no Saint George.

  The Boy looked round, in panic.

  “SAINT GEORGE!” roared the Magician impatiently.

  The Boy was terrified. He stepped out from behind the theatre and stood there shaking. “I’m sorry, Master,” he said in a very small voice, “Saint George seems to be missing.”

  The children all booed loudly.

  The Magician looked down with eyes so angry that the Boy was afraid he would turn him into a rabbit. The Magician’s tall figure seemed to grow and grow, towering over the Boy, and he pointed a long finger at him.

  “Then you must find him!” he hissed. The finger came very close, with its long sharp nail. “You will go where you must go, through all the Land of Story, until you find Saint George!”

  He swung his arm so that his long dark-blue sleeve swung past the Boy’s face, and the Boy saw gold moons and stars flash by, and felt himself falling, falling….

  The Boy fell to the ground and opened his eyes.

  The Magician and the children were gone. He
seemed to be in a wood. The trees all looked oddly round and stiff, like the trees he had painted on the back wall of the stage.

  And standing around him he saw, to his amazement, the puppets from his play: Father Christmas, the Turkish Knight, the Doctor, and the Dragon. But they weren’t puppets now. They were alive, and bigger than he was himself.

  The Dragon was much bigger. He opened his red jaws and roared, with a far more impressive puff of smoke than the Boy ever gave him. Father Christmas, the Turkish Knight and the Doctor all screamed, and ran away. The Dragon ran after them, chasing them into the wood, roaring.

  The Boy was left alone, staring around. Where was he?

  He heard a cough. It seemed to come from behind the nearest tree. He went to look, and found a low wooden signpost. Its two arms pointed in opposite directions, and there were words painted on them.

  The words said:

  Only a child can find the way To bring Saint George back to the play.

  The Boy read this to himself, twice.

  “Well, that’s no help!” he said, and he turned away to look for a path through the wood.

  “Hey!” said a voice.

  The Boy turned. He could see nothing but the signpost. “Where are you?” he said. “Who is it?”

  “I’m here!” said the voice. It was a gruff little voice. It sounded cross.

  Suddenly the Boy saw that the signpost was jumping up and down. It had two short legs, with large feet, wearing boots.

  “You can talk!” he said.

  “I know that,” said the signpost. “But can you read?”

  “Of course I can,” said the Boy. He pointed to the words on the signpost, and read them aloud:

  “Only a child can find the way To bring Saint George back to the play.”

  “There you are then,” said the signpost. It bounced up and down on its two little legs, and clicked its boots together.

  “That’s useless,” the Boy said. “It doesn’t tell me where the way is.”

  “Use your head,” said the signpost. “You’re in the Land of Story. You have to travel through stories.”

  “What stories?” said the Boy.

  “The ones you’ve been told all your life, of course,” said the signpost. “Starting with nursery rhymes. Choose a nursery rhyme. Come on. Any rhyme.”

  The Boy’s mind went blank. “Er,” he said. “Er … the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe.”

  “Not a great choice,” said the signpost. “She doesn’t get out much. Still, here we go.” And it went trotting off through the trees.

  The signpost trotted on through the trees. They looked like green lollipops.

  The Boy followed, because he didn’t know what else to do. They came to an open space, and in it was a gigantic shoe, as big as a house. It was a real shoe, made of leather, with huge shoelaces, but there were windows set neatly into its sides. Just over the heel there was a front door, with steps leading up to it.

  Over the top of the shoe, where a foot would go in, was a sturdy tiled roof, with a smoking chimney. The Boy thought the house looked more like a boot than a shoe, but nobody had ever told him a story about the Old Woman Who Lived in a Boot.

  The signpost gave a loud whistle, and out of the front door came a yelling crowd of children, jumping and quarrelling. Some were barefoot, some were only half dressed, some were very grubby. Some swung on the giant shoelaces, some pointed at the Boy and giggled.

  The Old Woman came running down the steps after them, very cross, shouting, “Hannah, Ellie, Marina, get off those laces! Jack, Charlie, Liam, put some clothes on!”

  She stopped, drying her hands on her apron. She wasn’t so very old, the Boy saw—just tired.

  “Oh dear,” she said to herself, “it’s a hard thing to be blessed with so many little darlings.”

  The Boy said, “Excuse me, ma’am—”

  She looked at him in horror.“Oh no!” she said. “I’m sorry, not another child! I simply cannot cope! Try another shoe—a size larger!”

  Three little girls came grabbing at her apron, teasing, laughing.

  “I don’t want a home, ma’am,” the Boy said. “I’m just looking for Saint George.”

  The Old Woman tried to keep her balance, swatting at her children. “Well, you won’t find him here—there’s not a man in the land who would take on a family this size. Not even a saint!”

  The other children came running, shouting.

  “Can you tell me where to find Saint George?” the Boy yelled, as a small boy climbed up his back.

  The Old Woman didn’t answer. She shook herself free of the giggling children. “Quiet, all of you! Oh, what shall I do? For two pins I’d whip you all soundly and put you to bed!”

  The Boy thought that sounded like a good idea—but then he heard music. So did the children. They all stopped jumping about, and listened.

  Out of the trees came a cheerful tune, coming closer, closer—and into the clearing came a tall thin man playing a pipe. He wore pants and a shirt patched with red and blue and yellow, and shoes to match.

  “Oh dear oh dear,” said the signpost. It jumped up and down at the Boy’s feet. “You know who that is?” it said.

  The Boy said, “He looks like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.”

  “He is,” the signpost said. “And now we’re in trouble.”

  The children began skipping in time to the Piper’s tune, clustering around him, laughing. The Piper kept on walking, so they skipped after him, out of the clearing, through the wood.

  “Children!” called the Old Woman. “Come back!”

  But the children all skipped on, and the Boy went with them. The music was so happy that his feet wanted to skip too. The signpost came with him, but it was not at all happy. It kept muttering in its gruff little voice, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

  Through the trees the children went, dancing to the Piper’s music, and the path began to rise steeply. Up and up they went, until they were on a stony mountain, high above the wood.

  Far below, the Boy could see the Shoe in its clearing. The Old Woman was running to and fro, flapping her apron, calling, “Children! Come back!”

  Ahead of him on the path, the Boy heard a great creaking sound, and in the side of the mountain, a big door began to open. The Piper headed for it, playing merrily, leading the children in. The Boy ran after him.

  “Sir,” he called, “you can’t do this! These are not Hamelin children, they belong to the Old Woman. She hasn’t done you any harm, you can’t take her family away!”

  The Piper stopped playing, and looked down at the Boy. He was a very good player, but he didn’t look very smart.

  “These children aren’t from Hamelin?” he said.

  “No!” said the Boy.“They live in a shoe.”

  “What a ridiculous place to live,” said the Piper, and he put his pipe to his lips again and went on into the mountain, leading the skipping children through the big door.

  “Come back!” called the Boy, but the door slammed shut. Behind him, the Boy heard a wail, and he turned, to see the youngest of the old Woman’s children, a very small girl who hadn’t been able to keep up with the rest. She toddled up to the door, crying. “Want to go too!” she sobbed.

  “What’s your name?” said the Boy.

  “Zoe,” said the little one, and howled.

  “Well, come on, Zoe,” said the Boy. “Let’s see if this mountain has a back door!” And he tucked small Zoe under his arm and ran as fast as he could along the path round the base of the mountain. The signpost thudded along after him, puffing.

  Sure enough, there was another door at the back of the mountain, set into the rock. Faint sounds of music came from behind it, growing louder, and suddenly the door swung open. Out came the Piper, piping, with the children skipping after him.

  Zoe gave a squeal of joy, and wriggled out of the Boy’s arms and ran to join them.

  “Quick!” said the Boy. He grabbed the signpost and stood it on the path, so that on
e of its arms was hidden in a holly bush and the other pointed back the way they had come.

  The Pied Piper didn’t notice what the Boy had done. Lost in his music, he glanced at the pointing arm and followed its pointing. The children skipped happily after him, heading back home. The Boy and the signpost followed, a little way behind.

  There was the Shoe, in its clearing. The Old Woman was sitting slumped unhappily on its doorstep. When she heard the music, she jumped to her feet, beaming.

  “There you are!” she cried to the children. “Just in time for supper!”

  “Phew!” said the Boy, in relief.

  “Very nicely done,” said the signpost.“ That was a Good Deed, and sometime you will have a reward.”

  The Boy said sadly, “All I want is Saint George,”

  “I can tell you where to find Saint George,” said a voice, and out from behind a holly bush came a boy. He was about the same age and size as the Magician’s Boy, but his face was very round and pale, with a stumpy little nose, and he moved in a stiff sort of way.

  “Can you really?” said the Boy, excited. “Please tell me, then!”

  “He keeps his horse in our yard,” said the round-faced boy.

  “Really?” said the Boy. He stared at the other boy. The stumpy nose looked longer than it had been before.

  “My father says it’s better than a lawn mower,” said the round-faced boy, grinning. His nose looked longer still.

  The Boy peered more closely, puzzled.

  “Then where is Saint George?” he said.

  “He’ll be coming to pick up his horse at dinnertime,” said the round-faced boy, and his nose grew as long as a broomstick.

  The signpost made a sudden loud scratchy sound. “Pinocchio,” it said, “stop your fibbing!” It jumped up and down on its bouncy little legs, and made the scratchy sound again.

  The boy pouted. “Oh Mr. Cricket, you spoil all the fun!” he said, and he stomped off through the wood.