The Magickers (14 page)

“Nah. They'll be fine till we let them go tomorrow.” Trent looked around. “Which way from here?”

Jason pointed. He backed away from the cove bank carefully, shoes slipping a little. Trent clambered after, branches bending from their passage through. They emerged on a side path, scratched and breathless, bugs humming noisily inside their jars. Stealthily, they approached Bailey's cottage. Built a little larger, with a porch that wrapped around, and a sloping roof, the cutout of a stretched-out cat, with its paws hanging down and curled about the door's threshold, was nailed overhead.

At their footfalls on the porch's edge, the door yanked open. Bailey peered out. “Jason? Trent?”

“That's us.”

“Get in here!” She reached out, grabbing Jason's wrist and pulling him inside. Trent tumbled after. “It's almost Lights Out!”

“We won't take long,” Jason said as Trent pushed a jar of lightning bugs at her.

“Hold this and don't drop it.”

“Bugs?”

“Fireflies. Our alibis. So don't shake it, drop it, or put it down.” Trent grinned and waved at Ting, who sat cross-legged on her bunk, reading yet another book. She smiled briefly and waved back.

Trent rubbed his hands together. “What do we have for bait?”

“Not much.” Bailey sighed. “I've got a CD. Not that I want anyone to take it, it's my favorite. But my name is etched into it on the blank part.” She opened the plastic case and showed them the faint spidery lettering. “It'll be easy to identify.”

“All right, then. This is what we're going to do. . . .” Trent took the CD from her and told her about the trap as he and Jason quickly assembled it.

Bailey admired it when they were done. “Simple.”

“Ought to make enough noise to catch anyone, if you're nearby. If you're not, they'll still be marked.” The two boys stood and admired their little trap.

Bailey checked her watch. “It's past Lights Out!” She signaled Ting who made a face of disappointment as she set her book aside, and Bailey led them back to the cottage door. The cottage had two small nooks, and closets and a window seat. There were also two big chairs done in rose-hued, patterned upholstery to curl up in. Around the top of the walls just below the ceiling, was a bright wallpaper strip of cats and kittens, parading, sitting, curling, cleaning, and tumbling. She scooted them outside. “I'll let you know at breakfast what happened!”

Yawning, she closed the screen door on their heels and the cottage lights snapped off. Jason nearly slipped off the last porch step, his shoes still slick with lakeside mud and silt. Trent caught him as his ankle turned slightly. He bent to straighten his air splints and as he did, he caught the glint, the flash, of a green eye in the bushes behind the second cottage across the way, watching.

“We need to get back,” he said tightly. He turned and fled across the campground.

Thunder rumbled across the dark sky. It was far away yet, like a low growling, and the lightning that had set it off was hidden behind the clouds and mountains. Trent leaped and ran after him, branches whipping around their bodies as the wind picked up. He did not stop to breathe till they were in front of their own cabin door, and then he doubled over, lungs aching. The fireflies in his jar rattled a bit angrily. He set them down on the rough wood of the porch. One of them glowed, and another answered.

Trent turned his jar around in his hands. “Makes you wonder, sometimes, how they came about doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Making light. I mean . . . did dinosaurs see fireflies, do you think? Or was it later . . . like woolly mammoths?” Trent leaned over and set his jar next to Jason's. The glass walls clicked against each other.

“Gentlemen,” a voice said quietly from the porch's edge. “A little late for you, isn't it?”

Trent jumped in mid-yawn. Jason looked through the shifting shadows to see Gavan Rainwater leaning against the porch posts. He moved forward a little, to catch what moonlight managed to sneak out from behind the clouds.

“We're just going to bed now, sir,” Jason answered.

Gavan glanced at their jars. “Out collecting?”

“I thought it would be fun,” Trent said. “They don't have fireflies where he's from.” He jerked a thumb toward Jason.

“No? This is a good area to study all kinds of wild-life and phenomena,” the camp leader continued. He tapped his cane on the steps. “I suggest, however, that you hit the hay now. Plenty of time tomorrow to take on studies.”

Jason listened to Trent drift off into regular deep breathing, almost a snore, as thunder rumbled dully from far away again. Too restless to sleep, he turned on his side. He didn't want to sleep, even if it was the only way he hoped to catch a glimpse, a memory of his father. All too often it was the cold tomb, and he couldn't bear that again, he couldn't.

After long, long moments, he thought he could hear steps outside, and the brush of a tree branch. He caught Tomaz Crowfeather's words from somewhere nearby, “You're right, Gavan, these are tracks here . . . circling. Fresh, too.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“What I think it is, you don't want to know.” There was a long pause during which Jason felt himself sink that much closer to sleep. “Not that I haven't seen them in a long while, but I was hoping it would be a longer time before I spotted any. Wolfjackal. Has to be.”

A hiss of breath. “No. . . .”

“Gavan, I have not yet found a way to secure the entire campgrounds. A warding of that type takes more manpower than I have.”

“Dark Hand . . .” Gavan muttered something before adding, “Do what you can. I won't have anyone at risk.”

“I can put a few charm bags down, maybe throw it off the scent. I can't give you more than another day or two, even at that.” A pause in Crowfeather's voice. Then, “You need to take care of matters. This is an undertaking greater than the handful we have here.”

“I know. Believe me I know.” Gavan sighed. “I'm up against a lot, Tomaz. The Council thinks we're too brash, this is too soon, and they won't throw their support in yet. They want to see what happens before they take a risk.”

“Well, then. We'll just have to show them the potential, won't we?”

“Yes. Yes, we will.”

He held his breath, waiting to hear if there were other words, but nothing came. Either they had moved away or lowered their voices so much he could not hear them any longer.

Wolfjackals.
Jason's eyelids fluttered. He held his right hand over his left, palm down over the scar.
Gavan and Crowfeather knew what it was that had attacked him.

The thought somehow comforted him. The danger was real. He had not been imagining things. He would not have to fight ghosts. In the morning, he would think of a way to deal with it. Maybe he could say something now.

10

“
T
HE Rain in Spain is Mainly a Pain . . .” Bailey recited. “But it does make mud,” she added, as she turned away from the window.

“What's that got to do with anything?” Jon peered at her from his corner of the arts and crafts table, elbows resting on the newspapers spread from one end to the other. Big plastic bags of clay were thumped down in the center of every table in the great hall, and their voices seemed muffled. Every camper was here, swimming and boating lessons having been canceled, and although the rain had been interesting the first day or two, it wasn't at all now, nor did it cool the weather off. Each raindrop had been as hot as if there were teakettles in the clouds spitting them out.

“We'll be working with mud.” She tossed her head, golden-brown ponytail flipping vigorously.

“Ceramics clay is not mud. Well, it is . . . but it's not.”

“Indeed it isn't!” a brisk voice rang throughout the hall, and campers all over looked up from reading the cartoons which seemed to be the only thing printed on the many newspapers. A plump, apple-cheeked older woman swept into the hall, her silvery hair in many, many curls, wearing a paint-stained smock over an interminable set of clothes. Her dark eyes fairly sparked as she looked about and pulled a stool over to perch on, its wooden legs screeching against the floor. Jason blinked. She almost looked familiar, yet he hadn't met her . . . had he? He stared in fascination.

“This clay,” and she thumped a heavy gray plastic bag with the back of her hand, “is much different. It's called Steve's white and it's . . .” she let out a mirthful chuckle, “highly sanitized and refined mud!” She, too, glanced out the windows at the drizzling sky. “You will find, if you study the histories of the world, that long ago empires rose and fell on the quality of their mud.” She smiled. “It takes the finest mud in the world to make quality porcelain, for instance! Today is an excellent day to find out what you're made of . . . I mean, what you can make of clay.” She smiled sweetly.

Stefan thumped on the bag of clay left on his table. He also smiled . . . slowly. “We're gonna get dirty.”

“Only if you smear it all over yourselves.” The woman added cheerfully, “My name is Freyah Gold-bloom, Aunt Freyah to all of you. Not that I'm your aunt, but . . . well, it seems to suit me.”

Jennifer put her slender hand up. At her nod, she asked, “Will we be throwing or just modeling? And will they be glazed and fired?”

“Aha! Someone who's done more than make mud-pies. Believe it or not, there is a wheel and a kiln, but I haven't had a chance to inspect them to see what kind of shape they're in. No, I think this is a just dig in and do it session.” Freyah's apple cheeks reddened even more. “Today, I think we'll stay with pinch pots and basic figurines, whatever you feel like doing.” To demonstrate, she troweled out a handful of clay, rolling it between her palms until she had a thin snake, then coiled it into a pot. “Of course, if you come up with anything outstanding and want to have it fired, I will be happy to set it aside for you.” Her hands manipulated, pulled and pinched until she finished forming her pot.

But not just any pot. As Jason watched, she gave it ears for handles and then sculpted a cow's head and muzzle for a pouring spout. “A creamer,” she said, as she finally finished.

Ting, Bailey, and Jennifer applauded. Jon considered the item in faint bemusement as she then proceeded around the tables, troweling out clay and dropping it in lumps on the papers in front of them. Jason dug in. Cool, pasty, hardly wet. He worked it through his fingers to get a feel for it and an idea of what he wanted to do. Now the battered mugs and old jars partially filled with water also made sense, as he dipped a hand into one and got his clay a little moister, easier to work with. It squished wonderfully.

Trent immediately went to work, humming and drumming his fingers as he paused now and then to rework his artistry.

Aunt Freyah stopped by Jason's elbow. She watched as he worked a bit more water through the clay. “What are you working on, lad?”

“Nothing yet. Just trying to get a feel for it.”

“It needs to be a bit dry, you know, to hold its shape . . . whatever shape that may be.”

“Okay, no more water. I just wanted to . . . you know . . . feel it. All the way through. Not just shape the outside.”

“Interesting,” Freyah said, with a shake of her many silvery curls, and a pursing of her lips, and a blaze of her dark eyes. “Very interesting. I'll check back in later to see what you've come up with.”

He nodded without looking as she moved away, his attention on the material in his hands. He wasn't quite sure what he was going to make as he hadn't had any idea, brilliant or stupid, pop into his head yet.

Across from him, Bailey already had a cunning mouse resting on the newspaper and she was busy adding a coiling tail.

Trent had made a reclining dragon of sorts. He looked up. “Hey, Bailey. Can my dragon devour your mouse as soon as I make his jaws bigger?”

Bailey made a snuffing noise. “I think not!” She turned her newspaper about, pulling her creation closer to her, out of his reach.

All around him, campers worked busily. Stefan and Rich worked on a common project which looked to be some kind of low, sleek car, which even then he wouldn't have recognized, but Aunt Freyah had crooned, “Oooh, an automobile,” as she'd passed them.

Henry worked on what looked to be a squat owl, with spectacles on its beak, although Jason wasn't really quite sure . . . it could be a bust of himself.

Ting made a teacup, with a clever handle.

And all over the room were a number of pinch pots, in various stages of being and uprightness (the clay seemed to have a tendency to sag).