The Misadventures of the Magician's Dog (8 page)

He didn't say anything to The Dog until she was well past them. “So what does that have to do with me?” he asked.

“After my master learned how to do magic, he was curious to know if there were any other magicians in the world. So he set out to find some. Of the three that he found, he got into battles with two that ended with him destroying the other magicians. He didn't fight with the third, though; instead, they started talking. She's the one who told him about the inevitability of backfiring spells. That's when he got his brilliant idea. Once he knew he'd eventually self-destruct, he decided to make it so I could do magic, too. He made me his assistant so I could save him if something went wrong.”

Peter stopped abruptly. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, having already guessed the answer. There was only one answer, really, that made sense of everything that had happened over the past two days.

“My best chance at returning him to human form is you.”

They stood there in silence for a minute or two before Peter's feet started moving again of their own accord, but faster now, as though by walking he could escape what The Dog had said. “There must be some mistake. How could I help you with something like that? You know how to do magic better than I do. Just wish him back.”

“I've tried,” said The Dog. “I'm just not powerful enough. When I couldn't turn him back myself, I used the old crystal ball trick, only for me it was a dog bowl full of water. I asked it to show me how to save the magician, and I saw your face reflected back at me. You're the answer to my problem.”

“He sounds pretty horrible,” said Peter.

“That's perfectly true,” said The Dog. “He might well obliterate you the moment he's human again. He's destroyed magicians before.”

Despite the heat, Peter shivered at the word
obliterate
. “But why would I help you, then?”

“Well,” The Dog said, “it takes a lot of power to bring someone back from the other side of the world. If you get it wrong, you might end up with someone's arm or leg, but not the whole person. I'm not powerful enough to do it, and neither are you.”

How had The Dog guessed? Was he reading Peter's mind even now? “So I can't bring my father home.” Even saying the words out loud hurt.

“You and I may not be powerful enough,” said The Dog. “But my magician is. And if you make him human again, it's possible he'll be grateful enough to help you.”

Peter didn't say anything. He was thinking about his father's arm, freckled and strong and beloved. The Dog yelped once, the sound splitting the quiet of the morning. “Let me know what you decide,” he said, then ran down the sidewalk. Peter let him go. Their conversation was over, and they both knew it. However it had happened, The Dog had figured out his weakness. Peter had no choice but to help The Dog with his task—and pay the price, whatever it turned out to be.

On the morning that Peter's father had been scheduled to leave, Peter had woken up with the sense that someone was in his room. He had opened his eyes to find his father sitting on the edge of his mattress, watching him.

It was early still; the light that filtered in through his blinds was gray, turning everything to shadows. Peter wanted to smile at his father, but he couldn't.

“Hey, Dad,” he said instead.

“Hey, kiddo,” said Peter's father. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“It's okay.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. In the silence, Peter studied his father's face. What would it be like not to see him again? Peter pushed the thought away.

“Listen,” said his father, “I just wanted . . . Well, today is going to get busy. And I wanted a chance to say good-bye to you. Just you and me, I mean.”

Peter blinked away the sudden burn of tears; his father hated to see him cry. “Okay,” he mumbled.

“I'm going to miss you, kiddo. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. I know,” said Peter. He couldn't bring himself to add the obvious: that he would miss his father, too. “I wish you didn't have to go,” he said instead.

It was the wrong thing to say; Peter could tell by the flash of impatience on his father's face. Peter's father believed in dealing with reality;
no point in fantasizing about what's not going to happen
, he'd once told Peter. “Yeah, well, that's life,” he said now, glancing down at his watch. “I guess I better get moving. Got a lot to do.”

And that was when Peter got mad. Mad because whatever his father said, it
wasn't
life, it was just
Peter's
life. Mad because other kids didn't have to say good-bye to their fathers. Mad because this might be the last time he ever got to be with his dad alone. Mad because he didn't want to wake up tomorrow wondering if it would be the day his father would die.

Despite his words, Peter's father was still sitting there, waiting. What for? Peter wondered. For Peter to hug him? Tell him he loved him? Tell him good-bye?

Peter did something awful then. Something he'd remembered every day these past two months. He pulled the blankets to his chin and rolled over so he faced the wall. “I'm tired,” he said in a cold voice. “I want to go back to sleep.”

In the bleak light of dawn, Peter's father reached out a hand to touch Peter's shoulder; then, as if thinking better of it, he pulled it back. “Okay, kiddo,” he said, and stood up and left the room.

When Peter came back to his house, he found The Dog waiting for him on the front steps.

“Let's go, then,” said Peter. He was in no mood to be pleasant.

“Go where?” asked The Dog, panting. He'd clearly run all the way around the block.

“You know where. Go help your magician. The one who's going to obliterate me.”

The Dog yawned. “Oh, that. We can't actually do anything until tonight. It's generally better to do everything magical in the dark, when people are less likely to notice.”

Peter's mother and sisters weren't going to be home for hours, and now that Peter had decided to help The Dog, he was impatient to get started. But The Dog's expression suggested that he did not intend to discuss his decision. “What are we going to do until then?” asked Peter.

“I could use some kibble,” said The Dog, licking his lips. “And then . . . well, then I suggest we sleep.”

Yeah, right
, thought Peter as he went into the house. As if he could possibly sleep when he was this worried. He fed The Dog, then went into his room and shut the door to make clear that The Dog was unwelcome. He picked up a book and began to read, but the words kept blurring on the page no matter how he struggled to focus.

He didn't know at first that he was dreaming. What he knew was that he was walking through a desert, the sand thick and yellow; not like the desert in Arizona, with its saguaros and sagebrush, but like a sandbox desert, empty and bare. The sand dragged down his feet so that he had to fight to take each step, but he was too frightened to stop walking; if he stood still, he might sink.

He was in a hurry, he realized, to get someplace, but he didn't know where.

And then he saw his father. He was standing on the top of a ridge, waving excitedly, and that was when Peter knew he was dreaming, because even asleep, he could not forget that his father was deployed. All the same, Peter tried to run forward; he took one step, then another, but the sand was getting thicker and moving was getting harder.

His father kept waving, but something about his posture changed: instead of looking eager, he looked sad. As if he were waving good-bye, Peter thought, and his eyes filled with tears. Then he looked down, and his legs had turned to rock, and he knew he would never see his father again.

Peter woke to Celia shaking his shoulder.

“Wake up, lazybones. I mean it, wake up.”

“Huh?” said Peter, rubbing his eyes, which felt unaccountably wet. He couldn't quite remember what he had been dreaming or where he was.

“I said you need to wake up! It's three in the afternoon, Mom and Izzy and I have been home for ages, and Mom can't figure out why you're napping. As far as she knows, you went to bed early last night and slept in today. She's starting to wonder if you're getting sick.”

“Oh.” The events of the last forty-eight hours came crashing back into Peter's memory. Tonight. He had promised to help The Dog tonight.

He glanced around the room.

“The Dog isn't here,” said Celia impatiently. “He's out playing fetch with Izzy. For a dog who talks and does magic, he's pretty happy to chase sticks.”

Peter closed his eyes. He didn't really want to think about The Dog.

“Listen,” said Celia, “in a minute, we've got to go out so Mom can see you're awake. But before we do, will you tell me what you're planning?”

“What do you mean, what I'm planning?” asked Peter, playing for time.

Celia frowned. “I mean, what's going on between you and The Dog? What did you talk about on your walk this morning?”

“We didn't talk about anything,” said Peter, crossing his fingers behind his back. He hated lying, and it seemed as if he had done nothing but that these last two days. “We just took a walk, like I told you.”

“Peter Lubinsky! I know you're going to do more magic, and I
know
you're going to do something to bring Dad home. You have to tell me right now! This isn't fair!”

“I promised Izzy I wouldn't do more magic,” Peter reminded Celia.

“That was a lie and you know it. And now you're lying again.”

“I'm not lying,” lied Peter.

Celia's lips tightened into a quivering sort of grimace. She looked betrayed, Peter realized in amazement. Hurt, even. Which was strange, because Peter would have said that nothing he could do could hurt Celia. Hurt was an emotion Celia saved for when she fought with her friends, or when another girl was picked for the lead in the school play. Peter would have said she didn't care enough about him to be hurt by his actions one way or another.

He couldn't involve Celia in The Dog's task. Not with that word,
obliterate
, hanging in the air. But he couldn't exclude her, either.

“You're right,” he mumbled. “I wasn't telling you the truth before. I am going to try to help Dad, it's just . . . It's just that I've got to do some stuff with The Dog first.”

“What stuff?” asked Celia.

“I can't talk about it,” said Peter miserably. “Really, I can't. I'm sorry. But I'll tell you what's going on as soon as I can, okay? And I'll tell you as soon as I figure out a way to make Dad safe, too.”

Celia reached out to grab his hand. “Peter, you can't leave me out of this. I'll help you. You can't do everything all by yourself.”

“I have to,” said Peter. “I'm sorry, but I really do.”

Celia dropped his hand abruptly. “Fine. Don't include me, then. You don't need me? Well, I don't need you, either.” And with that, she disappeared down the hallway.

Peter sighed, smoothed his hair with the flat of his hand, and went out to find his mother.

That evening, things proceeded pretty much as they had the night before. Around ten o'clock, Peter announced he was going to bed. His mother kissed his cheek and told him to sleep well. Once Peter and The Dog were in his room, The Dog performed the same magic with the pillows, and then he and Peter slipped out the window and into the night. This time, though, The Dog did not take off down the sidewalk.

“So what are we doing now?” Peter whispered as they stood in his front yard.

“The rock is at the magician's house,” said The Dog. “So we'll go there.”

“Where does he live?” asked Peter. “Is it close by?”

“Not exactly,” said The Dog. “It's about thirty miles away, at the edge of the city. Magicians like solitude.”

“Umm . . . should I call us a taxi?” Peter asked. He tried to envision explaining to a taxi driver that he and his dog wanted to go to the middle of the desert at ten o'clock at night.

“Oh, we're not driving,” said The Dog.

“How are we getting there?”

“Well,” said The Dog, “I was thinking we would fly.” Magic. Of course.

“So. Let's get to it,” said The Dog. “How do you suggest we approach this?”

“Approach what?”

“Making you angry, obviously. Or would you rather channel your magic through hate?”

Peter shuddered. “No. I don't hate anyone that much. Anger is fine.”

“So how are we going to make you angry?” said The Dog.

“Isn't that what you do?” Peter asked.

“Look,” said The Dog. “It's about time for you to start taking some responsibility for yourself. It's your magic, and it's your anger. You do it.” As Peter watched, The Dog rose effortlessly into the air, then—floating about five feet above Peter's head—started to lick his tail.