The Real Boy (6 page)

Quiet for a while, some words and phrases here and there—the cloud of noise thinned into little wisps like the steam rising from the still. Caleb’s boots clunked their way around the shop, his voice enchanting customers, one sale at a time. Then: “May I help you, Miss Callie?”

Oscar snapped up and peeked through the doorway. There Callie was, in front of the envelopes of herbs, her hair in a thick long braid and her cloak wrapped tightly around her thin shoulders. He had nothing for her; he had gone looking for help for her but had come up empty.

“Yes, thank you, Master Caleb.” Callie sounded so different than when she talked to Oscar. Every word sounded like it was standing up straight.

“I need more treatment for hives,” Callie was saying.

Oscar froze.

“What you gave me yesterday worked splendidly,” she continued, “but I’m afraid the whole family has them now.”

All he could do was hold his breath and watch, as Caleb arched an eyebrow and studied Callie, who was looking up at him like a cat waiting for breakfast.

“Hives, Miss Callie,” Caleb said finally. “That must be a very uncomfortable family. We have many things in stock.” He waved his hands over to the packaged herbs and the decoctions. “Unless you’d like me to mix something for you? Do you know the source of the hives?”

Callie’s eyebrows knotted together. “Barrow ivy.”

“I see. That will require something special. We’ll put something together for you. And,” he added, a smile creeping across his face, “where is Madame Mariel?”

Callie’s hand flew to her neck. “Tending to the family,” she said. “The hives, you see.”

“Ah,” said Caleb. “Yes, very dedicated, our Mariel. Let me see what I can make for you.”

Caleb turned. Oscar watched. Callie was regarding the magician with the oddest expression, like he had words on his back she couldn’t quite read. It was how Oscar felt all the time.

The front door opened then, and two City girls walked in, older girls about Wolf’s age—one with tumbling black curls, the other with silky straight hair, and both with faces that seemed sculpted. If Wolf had been here, he would have started panting.

The girls parked themselves in the corner by some potions and were chirping back and forth about an appointment with Madame Lara, the soothsayer.

Caleb tossed an “I’ll be back with you soon, Miss Callie” over his shoulder, then circled over to the girls. He greeted them, his voice now rich as well as enchanting. And soon both of them were gazing up at him, eyes sparkling like jewels in candlelight.

“You went to see Madame Lara, eh? Did she have good fortunes for you both?”

The girls giggled again. “Yes,” said Curly Hair, “but she sent us here for some love potion. She says we’ll need it to get our heart’s desires.”

“Madame Lara is wise,” he said. “I can help you with that. But would you like something to help give you guidance in your endeavors, too? In case you need some direction when you cannot see Madame Lara?”

Both girls gasped. “Soothsaying?”

Caleb grinned. “Of a sort. Madame Lara is the one with powers. But I can help you tap into your own”—he tilted his head—“instincts.”

“Yes,” said Curly.

“For both of us,” said Silky Hair.

“It’s a very special potion,” Caleb said, leaning in close, softening his voice like he was telling a marvelous secret, one only everyone else in the shop could hear. “I’ll have to prepare it.” He grinned again with one side of his mouth and then, without changing his gaze, called in the direction of the back room.

“Oscar, are you there?”

Oscar nodded. But nods communicate little when someone is not looking at you. He took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway. “I am,” he squeaked, keeping his eyes down.

Caleb looked back. “Please bring up some cherry bark and belladonna,” he called. “I have a special item to make.”

Oscar smashed his lips together. That wasn’t for Callie.

“This is exciting,” Curly gushed. She turned toward her friend, and as she did so her velvet bag swung around and hit the shelf of dark glass vials behind her, full of carefully prepared tinctures. A whole flock of them came tumbling off, plummeting down, exploding as they hit the floor. Oscar put his hands to his ears and yelped. Crow appeared in the doorway, lantern eyes big, ears thrust forward.

Splinters of glass flew everywhere, and puddles of thick liquid spread out to meet one another. Silky screeched and picked up her deep red skirts—now dotted with splashes of tincture of camellia. She looked at her friend, aghast.

Curly Hair stepped back. “Really,” she said to Caleb, jewels dimming, “you should shelve these more carefully.”

Callie made some kind of small noise then, but Oscar didn’t have time to parse it. He was too busy thinking that there was nothing wrong with the way the tinctures were shelved, as long as no one hit them with her purse. As he informed the girls, apparently, because they both snapped their heads to look at him.

“Oscar!” exclaimed Caleb.

Well, it was true.

The girls’ eyes fell on Oscar, then darted to Crow, who was still standing as if she did not know whether to attack or flee. Oscar ached to bend down, put his hand on her back, and whisper that it was all right. But he could not move.

Curly Hair turned back to Caleb. “Master Caleb, why do you keep such creatures in your shop?”

“She’s not a creature!” Oscar exclaimed. “She’s a cat.” Anyone could see that.

“Oh, I see!” said the girl. “You keep it because it’s amusing.”

Both girls laughed, so full of mirth they might burst with it and shatter all over the shop. Oscar took a step back. He wanted to turn and run, but another gaze was holding him—Callie’s. She was looking at him so quizzically, like he, too, was falling off the shelf in front of her. Oscar lowered his eyes, then turned and headed back to the cellar.

Oscar spent the rest of the day in the pantry, dicing whatever dried camellia he had left into small pieces. Camellia was an exotic plant, not found even in this forest, so this would be it until Caleb could import some more. Oscar would then put the pieces in jars, fill the jars with alcohol, and seal them. He would shake them once a day, every day, for four weeks, then pour the tincture into vials and bring them up to the store. All the shining girls would have to wait until then to attract bountiful love.

Something had gone wrong today: the girls had laughed and Caleb had snapped, and a whole shelf had come tumbling down. But Oscar would remake the tinctures, and everything would be all right again—he would make it all right.

He looked down and kept chopping. There was more noise than usual coming from the shop above, or maybe Oscar’s ears just hurt more now. But as the afternoon wore on, the footsteps sounded more like stomping, the talking sounded more like yelling, and the door did not so much close as slam. His whole body hurt from the noise.

Eventually night came, and with it Caleb’s footsteps on the stairs. Oscar froze.
You can do it,
the magician had said.
I know you can.

Well, now Caleb knew the truth.

In a moment, the magician was filling the doorway. There was darkness on his face. Oscar’s stomach felt like he’d swallowed a whole jar of Barrow ivy.

“Oscar,” Caleb said. “I want to speak to you.”

“Yes, Master Caleb,” Oscar whispered. He kept his eyes focused firmly on the floor.

“I am going back to the continent. My business calls me there.”

Oscar sat up. “To the continent?” he repeated.

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Now?” Oscar asked.

“Yes,” Caleb said. “I’ll be gone several days. You will mind the shop, as we discussed.”

Oscar’s eyes darted to the pantry shelves. They crashed to the floor behind his eyes. “But . . . what about Wolf?” Oscar asked suddenly. It hadn’t been what he’d wanted to ask. Not really. He didn’t know what he wanted, other than some truth Caleb could give him, something solid and smooth and sure.

Caleb put his hands on the door frame and exhaled. “Wolf’s death was a tragedy. It was a terrible accident. But it has nothing to do with us.”

In the distant hallway the lanterns flickered.

“The shelves were fine,” Oscar said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Caleb’s gaze held him completely and would not let go. “Oscar,” he said after a time, “you have worked hard for me. I knew you would.”

“You did?” Oscar dared a glance up.

“Yes. I handpicked you at the Home. They recommended other children. But I picked you. Do you know why?”

Oscar’s breath caught. His eyes widened and he shook his head slowly. He dared not say anything, lest Caleb change his mind and not tell him.

Caleb leaned in. “Because the wards told me you were the one who would never get picked.”

Oscar’s eyes darted up to his master’s face for a flash, and then dropped to the floor. A snap of the fingers
,
and suddenly he was hollow inside.

“I needed someone who would work hard,” Caleb continued. “I needed someone who would be loyal. The boy nobody wanted, that was the boy for me.” The magician let go of the door frame and straightened himself up. “You are an odd little boy,” he said, speaking right to Oscar’s hollow places. “And it is acceptable to be an odd little boy down here in the pantry with only the cats to notice. But when you are minding my shop, you will not be odd.”

As always, Caleb’s words sounded sure, themselves a charm. But now they hit Oscar like a punch. There was a warning in them, too, something that called up the void at the end of the world. Oscar tried the words for himself.
You will not be odd.
He tried to wrap his hands around them and squeeze. But there was nothing there; his hands were empty.

CHAPTER SIX

The Deal

T
hat night, the shadows of the past revealed themselves to Oscar, as the Wolf in his head laughed. The truth had been there in his memories the whole time—he just hadn’t looked hard enough.

Something was wrong with him—and down deep he’d known his whole life. Maybe the wards had even said something.
(You are not right, boy.)
Maybe the other children had.
(What’s wrong with you?)
Maybe it had happened while he watched one child after another walk off with a family from the Eastern Villages, with a merchant or a farmer.
(You know no one will ever take you, right?)
Maybe he’d even said it to himself.

He remembered a feeling, too—vibrations and the sense that his whole body was charged with something, something unnatural, like his heart and brain were always spinning—and that nothing could take it away, not the sticks of the dons or the taunts of the other children or the bemused expression of the islanders who would ask him questions and then pass him by.

Look me in the eye, boy.

And another one: that grinding sensation again, deep at the core of him.

You were the one who would never get picked.

Yes, he had known.

You are not right.

A weight on Oscar’s chest, a steadiness—Crow, though it was not her routine. She purred loudly, as if to overpower the voices in his head. Slowly, his mind stopped chattering at him. There was this—rhythm and softness and nothing else.

Shh,
she said.
Shhh.

She melted into his chest, and he into his bed. He was so tired.

Shh,
she said.

He could not protest. Crow was right. He had nothing left. He did not care what sleep might bring, as long as there was sleep to be had.

Shhh, Shhh . . .

Caleb was gone by morning. Oscar did his chores and ate his bread and most spectacular cheese, shook the tinctures and prepared a few envelopes, and then headed up to the shop. It was all up to him: He would be loyal. He would work hard. He would not be odd.

Oscar tidied the shop; he straightened his white shirt and black pants, he smoothed his thick hair, he rubbed off all the dirt patches on his boots.

And when it was time to open for the day, Oscar walked over like a good shop boy and unlocked the door. And there, waiting outside, was Callie.

Oscar flushed and looked down, his guts burning. Callie pushed open the door, and he stepped to the side—she could just take what she needed and leave the coins and go without seeing him. His eyes darted to Caleb’s obscuring blankets, as if he could will one to fly to him now.

Stillness. Oscar could see only the floor, but Callie wasn’t moving; he could tell that much. The quiet lasted several heartbeats. And then, an echoing beat—the fall of Callie’s boots.

“Are you all right?” she murmured.

Oscar swallowed. If only he’d found something for her in the library. He could hand her the spell, and she would know he was good for something besides making the shining girls laugh.

“Oscar,” Callie said, “listen to me. Those City girls are mean. And horrible. I hope their dresses were ruined.”

Oscar glanced up. “You do?”

“Yes,” Callie said. “And their boots, too. Don’t think about it anymore. Is Master Caleb in today?”

“No,” Oscar said. He straightened and smoothed down his shirt. “He’s away.”

He could see Callie now—she was wearing an apron and had her hair tied back. It bounced slightly as she moved her head, like it might spring off into the air.

“Hmm,” she said, glancing over at the herb packets. “All right. Well. I need some barberry.”

Oscar blinked. “Barberry? Why?”

“What do you mean,
why
?”

“I mean, um, what do you need with barberry?” He leaned in. “Is someone following you?”

Callie’s eyes darkened. “No.”

“Oh.”

“I have a patient who has a terrible headache,” Callie said. “She’s had it for a day. That is why I want barberry. Since you are so curious.”

“Butterbur!” he exclaimed. “Not barberry,” he said. “Butterbur.”

Callie folded her arms and gazed at him. “That’s rude, you know.”

“But . . . ,” Oscar started, “isn’t that what you want? Butterbur? For headaches?”

“Yes! But”—Callie shifted—“you just can’t come out and say that.”

“Why
not
?” Oscar asked, words a plea.

“I mean, you say it
nicely
. You can’t just go around telling people they’re wrong. You . . . suggest that they
might
be wrong.”

“I tell them . . . they
might
be wrong?”

“Like this.” She cocked her head. A curl fell and dangled toward the floor. “Pardon me, Miss Callie,” she began, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m wondering if you are perhaps confusing your barberry for your butterbur.”

Oscar tried it. He cocked his head to the right. It was not entirely comfortable. “P-pardon me, Miss Callie. I don’t mean to be rude, but”—he looked up at her; she smiled encouragingly—“I’m wondering . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve said three extra things already! Isn’t it quicker to just say what’s right?”

“That’s not the point. Keep going.”

He tilted his head farther and finished: “I’m wondering if you are perhaps substituting your barberry for your butterbur . . . because they’re completely different!”

He could not help it. They really were.

The left side of Callie’s mouth went up. “That’s better, anyway. But you don’t have to . . .” She studied him. “Well, here . . .” She put her hands on his head and moved it slightly back toward the center. “Like this.”

Oscar’s breath stuck in his throat. Her hands burned his skin. His neck felt like a stick of wood as she moved it, like it was not made to bend in quite that way.

“You’re very stiff, you know,” Callie said. “It’s not natural. Just relax.”

Oscar took a deep breath and willed his neck to un-stiff, to do whatever a normal neck on a normal person did.

“That’s . . . better,” Callie said.

Oscar jolted his head up, the way he was used to holding it, the way his wooden neck knew best. He did not look unnatural that way; at least he didn’t think so.

“So,” he said, breathing, “you want the butterbur, then?”

“Yes.” She looked around and then added, “Madame Mariel’s with the patient now.”

Oscar frowned. “She usually comes in, doesn’t she?”

“She’s busy.”

“She hasn’t been here in a few days.”

“She’s busy.”

“Is she coming soon?”

“Busy!” Callie repeated.

“Forever?”

“I can handle going to the shop,” Callie said, standing as straight as an oak. “I’m an apprentice. It’s my job to take over.”

“I know,” said Oscar.

“I just mixed them up, that’s all. It’s an easy mistake.”

“All right,” said Oscar.

“Barberry and butterbur.” She stared at him as if he were the one who had named them. “They sound just alike.”

“Well . . . sort of,” said Oscar.

Callie looked at him again intensely, carefully, and something in her seemed to loosen. She looked at the shop door and then leaned in to Oscar. She smelled like licorice and hazelnut oil. “Can I tell you a secret?” she whispered.

Oscar’s eyes widened. “Yes!” Who was he going to tell, the cats?

“Madame is gone.”

“Gone?”

“She goes to the Eastern Villages once a year for—to visit patients.”

Oscar’s eyes widened. The duke had made it illegal for magic smiths to practice in the east—the magic was for the Asterians. It didn’t stop the magic smiths from doing it once in a while. Some years ago Caleb had invented a shield that allowed magical items to survive the trip across the plaguelands. This was the first time anything magical had left the Barrow since the time of the wizards.
And what the duke doesn’t know about,
Caleb had said
, he cannot tax.

“We have to keep it secret,” Callie added, “of course. But . . .” She looked at Oscar, then tucked the stray strand of hair behind her ear. “She’s been gone since Tuesday afternoon. Four days is a long time. I am sure there’s a good reason. But I’m supposed to pretend she’s just . . . out, when people call on us. Busy. It’s not just the duke. She says no one will call if they know she’s gone.”

“But you’re an apprentice!” Oscar said. It wasn’t like Mariel was leaving the shop in the hands of some idiot orphan.

“Oscar, I don’t have . . .” And then she stopped and shook her head.

“What?” Oscar said. “You don’t have what?”

“People are sick and they come to me and they need help, and . . . Oscar . . .
I don’t have magic
.”

Oscar stared. “You don’t?”

She shook her head.

“But you’re an apprentice! Apprentices are supposed to—”

Callie stiffened. “I know what apprentices are supposed to have! But . . . I don’t. And I can’t learn the remedies. Not more than the basic ones. I try to sit down and study the herbs, but it just makes me prickly and tangled and stupid, and all I want to be doing is something else. None of it makes any sense.”

“I could help you,” he said. The words popped out of his mouth. He hadn’t even known they were there.

She blinked. “How?”

“Well, it’s just that”—he coughed—“I know a little about herbs and . . . I mean . . . not just preparing them, but—”

“You do?”

Oscar’s stomach churned. If this had been Wolf, he would have gotten hit already. “Actually, I . . . I know a lot about herbs,” he said. “I read a lot of books, and—”

“Oh,” said Callie. Her dark eyebrows knit together, and she studied him a moment. Two moments. Three. “I believe you,” she said finally.

“You believe me?”

“Yes,” Callie said, studying him. “That envelope Master Caleb gave me yesterday was completely different from the one you gave me the day before,” she said. “Entirely different herbs. You made it yourself, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t—I mean, they were the right herbs,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t making it up.”

“Oscar, I know.”

“So I can show you,” he said. “It’s really easy once you get a feel for it. See”—he could hear himself getting louder, but could not seem to stop it; there were too many words to say—“most things work better in combination. You want two or three things in a decoction. It’s better if they flower in the same season; then they’re more like each other: it’s like they have the same hearts, just their bodies are different. Then they bring out the power of the other one more—”

The door opened then. Mistress Alma, the silversmith, walked in, eyed them, and then moved over to the charms.

Callie leaned in. “You don’t usually talk that much,” she said in a whisper.

“Not to people.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Oh,” Oscar said. “It’s . . . better.”

He flushed suddenly, intensely, like his whole face was a match someone had just lit.

Silence then. He could not look at Callie, had no idea what her face was telling him, probably could not even have understood it if it had been trying to tell him something. Mistress Alma clattered in the corner.

“In the shop yesterday,” Callie said, voice hushed, “with the City girls . . . you weren’t trying to be rude, were you?”

Oscar shook his head. “I was just telling them the truth.” The words felt like a confession. And, underneath, a question.

“Sometimes,” Callie said slowly, “the truth is not always the best thing to say.” She tucked the errant curl back behind her ear and studied him. “Oscar,” she added, “why don’t we trade? You help me with the plant magic. I’ll help you with . . . people. Working the shop. Talking to customers. I’ll show you what to do. And how to deal with City people. We’ll just trade, that’s all.”

“You’ll . . . help me?” Oscar said.

“Yes. A trade. A deal.”

Oscar inhaled, and the breath he took in filled him so much that he was all air. “Yes,” he said, bringing his eyes almost up to hers. “Yes.”

Callie took her butterbur, with some feverfew for good measure, and left for the healer’s house, promising to come back later, in the afternoon, when her appointments were done. She promised, and so Oscar believed her.

He worked the shop methodically, studiously, trying to take up as little space as possible. He answered the customers’ questions in as few syllables as he could, and every few minutes he smoothed his shirt and ran his hand through his hair. He would do the best he could.

But he felt stiff everywhere. Even the syllables felt stiff in his mouth. The only thing worse than being odd was trying desperately not to be.

Then, in the afternoon, Callie walked through the door again, now in her bright red cloak. She strode right to the counter and stood behind it.

“Is this all right?” she whispered to Oscar, glancing at the people browsing the store. “To act like I’m working here?”

Oscar’s mouth hung open. Of course it was all right. It was the most all right thing that had ever happened to him.

“I just put a sign up at Mariel’s for any messages or callers to come here.”