The Magickers (10 page)

Bailey looked at the two of them, shrugged, and trotted down to the kitchens, her sneakers swinging from her hand. She dodged a last chipmunk barreling through the doors, little tail flipping with every leap and bound.

“The rest of you get changed and report to the crafts area down by the lake. I've buckets, mops, and brooms to give out. It's cabin cleaning time! You'll shower before lunch because you've got some real dirt pushing to do.” Hightower shooed them toward the bathrooms. Jason stared at him a moment. The counselor was incredibly tall and lean, a shock of thin black hair standing almost straight up. He had a long, thin nose with a crooked bent to it. “Let's get a move on!” He picked up the whistle hanging around his neck and shrilled a note. Everyone raced off to get ready.

Jason winced as someone pushed past, hitting his hand. He ought to find a nurse or something, just in case. He waited till everyone went by on their way toward the lake before looking at it in the full morning sunlight. Lifting his left hand, he stared in surprise at a thin, purple line, like that of a crescent moon. Healed yet sore.

He traced a fingertip over it. Very sore. Yet seemingly nearly healed. But how . . . ? Would the camp doctor even believe him?

A sharp whistle jerked Jason's head up, as Hightower beckoned for the latecomers. He'd think about it later. Right now, he was awake, dressed, and hungry with no breakfast till some work got done.

Trent pushed a mop at him and swung his own over his shoulders with a bucket hanging from either end. “Look at it this way,” he said, as they hit the winding pathways leading to the clusters of cabins. “At least we're cleaning up our
own
mess.”

They trotted through the evergreens to the chatter of blue jays. The cabins seemed to come in twos. The first two were more like lodges, one roofed with dark green shingles, the other with dark blue. The second pair were rustic, actual log cabins, the windows storm-shuttered and with screens leaning up against the porch, covered with leaves and pine needles. Starwind and Skybolt. A jagged white lightning bolt marked the other cabin, where Jonnard was patiently peeling Henry out of his humongous sleeping bag.

“What did we miss? What was the racket all about?”

“FireAnn chasing raccoons and chipmunks out of the kitchen.”

“Ah,” said Jonnard. He smiled. “I bet it'll take a few days for them to decide to stay out. They've probably got comfortable nests in there.”

“I think Cook lit a fire under 'em,” cracked Trent. He swung his own mop. “Cabin cleaning time,” said Jason, in case the other two didn't catch the drift. Trent took the steps in a leaping bound, more dried leaves flying away from his shoes.

“Can I see your place?” Squibb asked. He had turned red in the face, and a tiny trickle of sweat ran down his neck, which he wiped at uncomfortably. Jonnard nonchalantly threw the sleeping bag back inside the domain of Skybolt.

“Sure. Come on.”

The rusty latch lifted with a small complaint. He was not sure what he had expected as light from the front door streamed in, not having seen it in anything but wavering light from his old, dim flashlight. Henry came puffing in behind them, muttering, “Better not be any spiders. I hate spiders.” He stood in the middle of the cabin, looking around, pushing his glasses back up his nose from time to time. “Yeow!” He jumped as Trent sneaked up from behind and tickled his ear with a broom straw. He whirled around, then sputtered, “I guess I asked for that.”

Jason laughed. “Never tell the enemy your weakness!”

Jonnard said mildly, “I keep telling you, Henry, spiders are good. They'll web the mosquitoes and gnats for us.”

“I don't care. Don't like 'em! They give me the creeps.” Henry shuddered all over. “This is sorta like our place and sorta not.”

“What's different?”

“Well, you've got four bunks, like we do. But we don't have a window seat with a cabinet or bins—” he pointed across the room.

“We have,” Jonnard said quietly, “a built-in writing desk. The top comes down. Rather primitive but nice. And a closet.”

Henry said, “And you've got windows on three sides. We've got 'em on all four.” He spun around. “But yours is a cool place, too.”

Trying to work around the two with his broom, Trent muttered, “Hightower said no breakfast till your cabin was cleaned.”

Henry jumped. “We'd better get going!”

Jonnard laughed as Henry turned and hustled out the cabin door. He waved and followed.

Working quickly, the two got the storm windows open, and cleaned screens in place, letting sunlight flood in so they could mop down the floor. By the time a cornet call floated through the air, they were done, dusty, and starving. Hightower and Jefferson met them at the boys' side of the bathrooms with towels and soap.

Soon, they were scrubbed and dressed and still starving, lined up at the mess hall doorway. Jason's stomach rumbled, as he smelled delicious aromas of breakfast ahead of them. Jostling to get trays, plates, and utensils, Jason could see a line of eager campers ahead of them. The hall was only a third filled, though, built to hold far more campers than their numbers.

Finally, they made it to the front of the line. The wait was worth it. There were piles of fresh, fluffy biscuits. Bowls of butter and homemade fruit jams to go with them. A dish of hot, steaming sausage gravy to pour over the biscuit, if you'd rather have it that way. Jason couldn't decide, so he split his in two and had one half with jam and the other with gravy. Down the line were scrambled eggs and crisp bacon. Nectarines and grapes and melon. Milk and individual boxes of cold cereal. Jason trailed after Trent and watched as the wiry boy heaped helping after helping onto his plate. By the time they headed to the tables, Trent carried a small mountain of food in front of him. Even Henry Squibb and Jonnard dropped their jaws in astonishment as he passed by.

“My theory is,” Trent said, “you never know when you're eating next.”

“This, however, is camp food,” remarked Jonnard. He sat, his back straight, his dark hair neatly combed back, his plate consisting of two pieces of toast, a neatly dissected poached egg and several pieces of melon.

Trent paused with a forkful of fried potatoes halfway to his mouth. “And your point is . . .”

Jonnard quirked an eyebrow. “Never mind,” he said. With two precise cuts of knife and fork, he skinned the rind from both slices of melon and proceeded to cut them into bite size pieces.

Actually, Jason was beginning to wish he had taken two whole biscuits as Trent had. The hearty flavor burst in his mouth as he gobbled his down. The bacon was crispy with a slight smoky flavor and the eggs creamy and fresh tasting. He polished off a just right, juicy nectarine, and looked for a paper napkin to wipe his chin. Jonnard passed him one.

Henry and Trent finished eating at about the same time. By then, Hightower and Jefferson had moved to the front of the mess hall.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen. I hear almost all the cabins are in tiptop shape! Well done to the dirt crews. This morning, you ate wherever you felt like it, but starting tonight, you'll be eating at the table that matches your cabin. And showering and so forth on your schedules. So keep in mind that your cabin mates will be with you a lot.

“Headmaster Rainwater and Jefferson and I will be looking you over throughout the day, seeing what you're made of and throwing together regular schedules according to your ages and abilities. We've campers here from ten to fifteen, so we want to make sure everyone's having fun. Okay, now. The day's schedule will be posted at the front of the mess hall. The schedule for tomorrow will be posted after evening meal. It's your job to read it and know what's going on, and show up for activities.”

Hightower rubbed his bony hands together. “Any questions?”

Trent's hand shot up.

Elliott Hightower looked at him.

“Did you play basketball in school?”

Hightower's eyes widened in surprise and then he let out a chuckle. “A little. All right, then, turn in your trays. Be sure to scrape and clean your plates and sort out the recyclables. Be kind to the kitchen crew, your turn is next week!”

As they carried their plates to the cleanup area, they spied Bailey sitting on a stool in the kitchen, wearing an oversized white apron and a poofy white hat on her head. She was eating and, catching a glimpse of them from the corner of her eyes, she waved cheerily. Then she turned away, watching something across the kitchen intently. Jason edged up to the counter to see what it was.

He could hear someone's edgy voice. “I tell you, I have allergies. I need to know what's in some of these things or I can't eat them. It could kill me!”

FireAnn stood, a great frown making sharp lines between her vivid green eyes, her arms folded across her chest. “And I am answerin' you, lad. We are all aware of allergies and there is nothing in my recipes that will bother you. But my recipes are mine and likely to stay that way!”

The two redheads stood, nose to nose. “I could get deathly ill!”

“Not iffen your mum filled out your papers correctly. Think I'm daft, lad?” She raised her wooden spoon in emphasis. “There isn't enough tea in china or gold in Fort Knox to pay me for teaching a lad with poor manners. I am here because I wish to be, not because I am paid to be! Now, run along with you before I assign you kitchen duty for the next two weeks and you discover my cooking from the pot scrubbing up!” FireAnn brandished the wooden spoon.

Rich sputtered as he took a step backward. “We'll see about this.”

“Indeed we will.”

He turned, his face redder than his yellow-red hair, and stomped his way past Trent and Jason, headed outside.

The cook shook her head. “Temper, temper. He should try peppermint and chamomile tea.”

Jason could not help but shoot FireAnn a big grin before leaving as well. Trent right behind him, they found the posted schedules and jostled their way to the front to read them. “Canoes!”

Jason scanned down the rest of the schedule. He tapped a class after lunch. “Lanyards?”

“Sure. Crafts, you know.”

“What . . . ?”

“You've seen those braided key chains?”

Jason scratched his head. “Yeah, I think.”

“Those are lanyards. Like roasted marshmallows, you gotta do lanyards at camp, man.” Trent nudged him. “You'll like it. Sounds lame but it's fun.”

“You wouldn't be kidding me, would you?” The blue edge of the lake looked far more inviting. The sound of waves lapping against the rocky shore and soft silt beach carried through the scattered trees.

“No, seriously, it's fun. Once you know what you're doing, you go on to leather crafts. I had a friend make this cool braided belt once. Of course, it kept stretching out and his pants would fall down. . . .”

Jason laughed as they trotted down to the beach, and the cooling breeze off Lake Wannameecha hit him. Crowfeather was already there, squatting next to the racks of canoes, running his hands over them in inspection. There was a weathered, wooden bin with its lid open. He waved at the bin. “Life vests. Grab one. Buckles and straps are pretty easy to figure out. Help each other if needed.” A man of few words, he turned back to his examination of the boats and paddles.

“Know anything about canoeing?” Trent looked at Jason.

“Not a thing. They do float, right?”

“They're supposed to.”

Crowfeather straightened with a slight grunt. “In fairly good shape. I'm sure you guys will give them a bang or two.”

Dust rose in the landing as the rest of the group shuffled in. Crowfeather watched them silently, his arms crossed over his chest, till they all fell silent as well.

“Line up however you wish.”

Trent muttered, “Uh-oh,” as they bumped shoulders getting into some semblance of order. He grabbed Henry Squibb who came up, panting and red-faced, and thrust him between them. Jason looked at Trent, bewildered, then just shrugged. As soon as the last straggler fell in, Crowfeather went down and counted off, pointing at them. “One, two, one, two,” until he'd ticked off the last boy. “Two-man teams, ones with ones, twos with twos.”

Trent punched Jason lightly in the shoulder. Both, of course, had been counted off as twos. Henry pushed his glasses up, frowning until another boy headed for him, tanned hand stuck out in a grabbing handshake. “Alfaro,” the other said. “Daniel, but everyone calls me Danno.” Relieved, Henry pumped his hand.

“Henry Squibb . . . and everyone calls me Henry.” He beamed in welcome. Clad in a bright orange life vest, he looked rather like a rotund orange. Jason snagged some faded yellow vests for himself and Trent, which was an improvement, even if slight. They looked more like lemons.

Lake Wannameecha lapped serenely at the beach. Crowfeather turned as though following Jason's gaze. “Let the wind come up,” he said, “and that lake will be as rough as the Atlantic in a storm. Or it will seem that way.”

He pivoted on one bootheel, the silver-and-turquoise linked belt around his waist chiming slightly. “All right. This session is short. Remember your partners, remember what I am going to show you about paddling. Then you'll be dismissed to write a letter home and let your folks know you got here in one piece. After lunch, at the swimming classes, we'll get an idea of your skills in and on the water. Tomorrow, we'll launch these canoes.” He smiled slightly. “Be prepared to get wet.”

He spaced them apart, handed them paddles, and ran them through what he called dry land exercises, all the while drilling safety rules into their heads. Jason liked the feel of the oar in his hands, but felt a little silly paddling at dry air. Until, when told to switch sides, he and Trent clapped their oars together with a loud smack. He staggered back just in time to see Danno hit the dirt, avoiding Henry's long swing.