Witch & Wizard (21 page)

But I didn’t truly feel like I was going to throw up until I saw the birdhouse.

Our birdhouse.
The birdhouse Dad had built for Whit and me, and our mom. Nailed just where it had always been, twenty feet up on the massive trunk of the oak tree in our backyard.

How many times had I looked up at that spreading oak tree? My dad said it had been there for a hundred years or more. Whit and I had climbed it when we were little. Whit had used its acorns for batting practice, plinking them sometimes all the way over the neighbor’s roof. Also, he had fallen from that tree, breaking his leg like it was made of peanut brittle.

Now the tree stood by itself at the edge of a recently planted New Order field.

Everything around it, every house—ours included—was gone.

“WHERE’S OUR HOUSE? Where are Mom and Dad?” I said in a whisper, looking at the rippling corn patch where we used to live, where we had grown up, where we’d had such unbelievably happy times—except maybe my school-detention days.

I remembered what Mom had said whenever we came back from a vacation. I remembered every word.

North, east, south, and west

Our home is in the center.

Though we may roam, our home is best

And speak love, you may enter.

To be honest, I’d never really understood it, and the last line had never made any sense. Speak
of
love? Speak
about
love? Someone’s nickname
is
Love, and she’s telling him to speak?

I murmured the rhyme again, as mystified by it as I had been by everything else that’d happened since my normal life became my nightmare life.

“And speak love, you may enter,” Whit mused.

“Speak love,” I repeated, my heart aching. Then… “Oh. Wait. Speak love!”

I stepped forward, closer to where our front steps had been.

“Love,” I said loudly and clearly.
“Love.”

Then I held my breath as a ghostly shape began to form in front of us. It was our home, vaporous, see-through, not totally real. But the memory of our house, the essence of our house, was here, right down to the ivy that climbed the southern wall and an old deflated football of Whit’s.

Then the front door opened, and I felt my heart thudding heavily inside my chest.

Please. Not The One,
I prayed.

“MOM,” I WHISPERED as her form started down the steps. “Dad.”

They came to us, and of course we wanted to hug them, but we couldn’t, any more than Whit could hug Celia.

A horrible realization dawned on me. “Are you Half-lights?” I asked, my voice twisting hideously, on the verge of a bawl. “Are you
dead?
”

“We’re not dead, Wisty,” Mom said. “We’re just someplace else. You’ll see the real us soon enough. I hope so.”

“Mom,” I said again, my jubilation at her words almost making me faint. Could my emotions possibly roller-coaster any worse than this? I threw my arms out and tried to hug her again.

“Why can’t we touch you, then?”

“My sweet darlings,” Mom said, and it was pure
her.
“We’re alive, trust me. But we’re not really here right now. Magic has brought us to you today…. Someone else’s magic.”

Dad chimed in. “The important thing is that you know we’re so very proud of you. Your time in prison. How you rescued the children. How you dealt with that evil and unworthy judge. And The One Who Thinks He Is The One. You’ve done amazingly well.”

“You two are the present, and the future,” Mom said, smiling. “And now we know you can do it. This has just been a warm-up.”

“A warm-up… for what?” I asked. “I just want to be home again.”

Mom smiled wistfully. “You’ll see. But first you have to believe, Wisty, that you’re a very, very good witch. And one day, you’ll be a famous musician too.”

“And you’re a very, very good wizard, Whit,” Dad told him. “And, believe it or not, you’re going to be an important writer.”

Whit looked aghast. “I thought that the wizard thing was pretty out-there, Dad, but… a
writer?
You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Do you have your journal?” Dad asked, still very serious, and then he looked at me. “And your drumstick? You haven’t lost them, have you?”

I nodded and held up my drumstick. Whit pulled his journal out from his waistband. We’d gone to ridiculous lengths to keep these things safe, but for what reason? Because I was destined to be a musician? Because Whit—
Whit?
—was going to be an important writer? Who had time for writers and musicians in these dark days?

Mom held out a hand toward my beat-up, dirty drumstick. “Okay, Wisty, you’ve proven you’re ready to do this. Transform that stick into its true form.”

At this point, I was used to failing, but I
really
hated to fail in front of my parents. “Mom,” I stalled, “you know I’ve got, like, a C-minus track record in that department.”

“The difference is that now, I’m right here. You can look into my eyes. All of the secrets are in there.”

When is the last time you really, really looked deep into your parents’ eyes? I bet you don’t even remember the last time. Like, maybe since you were a baby and making stupid googly eyes at each other. Well, you’d be surprised at what happens when you go in there. It’s kind of scary, actually—but in a good way. I’m not going to tell you any more. Just try it yourself someday.

“Speak love, you may enter,” Mom murmured. And I did.

And when I looked at the drumstick, it had turned into a dark, slender wand. You heard me. A witch’s
magic wand.

Like me, you probably thought a wand was just a fantastical figment of legends and fairy tales. Well, we were both wrong. For one of the few times in my life, I was speechless.

“Now, you do it, Whit. Open the journal and look at me.” Dad held his hands above Whit’s shoulders and, as Mom and I watched them speak wordlessly to each other, the journal filled in with lessons, explanations, magic spells—everything a witch and wizard would need to know.

Whit whispered to me, “I’m glad I didn’t leave it in prison.”

“We adore you both,” Mom told us. “But we have to say good-bye for now.”

“We love you,” called Dad. “Good-bye. For a while anyway.”

“No!
Stay!
” I cried, but Mom and Dad had already started to fade. “Mom! I love you! Come back! Please don’t leave us already. Please!” I cried.

Then suddenly my parents were gone. Our house was gone too. Even the birdhouse.

I sank to my knees in the sun. Feffer licked my face. Dogs just know what to do, don’t they?

Finally, I struggled to my feet, and Whit hugged me and hugged me.

“This book is amazing,” he said, obviously trying to cheer me up. “Look—this is what I’m talking about.”

He held the book open under my nose. I sniffled and looked at it. Actually, it
was
amazing.

How to De-weasel Someone,
the page read in fancy letters. I frowned and read on:
If you’ve accidentally turned someone into a weasel, and you don’t wish them to remain a weasel, first you must…

I looked at him. “
Shred
that page, please, will you?”

“I dunno. The weasel might come in handy as a human at some point. You never know. Anyway,” he said, tugging at my sleeve, “we’ve got things to do, kids to save, a New Order to crush… witch.”

“Okay, wizard.” I sighed and followed Whit back through the cornfields to our battered blue van.

I was ready for whatever came our way—at least I thought so. After all, I was a bad, scary witch. And Whit was a supercool wizard.

Then the weirdness continued—emerging out of the corn from the same way we had come, Byron Swain appeared, de-weaseled.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “Your mom did it. She said I should watch over you two.”

And off we went to crush the New Order.

Except things didn’t go exactly according to plan.

Just according to the prophecies.

WHICH, OF COURSE, brings us back to where we began: waiting to be hung until dead in a stadium filled past capacity with craven looky-loos, and presided over by a fiend in black robes who scares the snot out of me.

Seriously, The One Who Is The One radiates like he’s some sort of bad-energy power plant.

And the most unnerving part isn’t just the obvious power he has over the people in this stadium, from the officious security guards posted at every entrance to the slack-jawed gang of spectator teens in colorful N.O. sweat-shirts sitting on the goalpost at the end of the field.

No, the thing that freaks me out is that I can tell he’s got
magic.
A
lot
of it. Serious mojo.

His Oneness gestures for the crowd to quiet, and they hush even before his hand is fully raised. How often in human history has somebody like him taken control of a whole society? You know the answer, my friends:
far too often.

It looks like he’s going to give a speech, which will definitely put me over the edge. I mean, it’s bad enough that his evil puss is going to be among the last things we Allgoods see, but now his words are going to be among the last things we hear.

That is, unless this vague but growing feeling I have is in fact some sort of witch’s intuition. See, I have this weird sensation that at the last moment we’re going to find a way out of this horrible, unspeakable situation… and live to fight on, and hopefully have something to do with bringing goodness and prosperity to all, aka Prophecy Six.

But that moment isn’t here yet. In
this
moment, there’s just quiet.

How can a hundred thousand people be so absolutely quiet?

So quiet you can hear the faint breeze riffling through the stadium.

So quiet there’s nothing to do but be scared, really scared.

So, how are
you
doing—wherever you are? Listen, please:
seize the moment,
however worried you may be about what’s coming next. It’s your brain, it’s your life, it’s your attitude…. Go out there and fill up with sights, sounds, and ideas that are bigger than yourself. We all know from history—to say nothing of this current reality—what can happen if we stay quiet and just do what’s put in front of us.

And don’t worry too much about Whit and me. Word of what happens next will get to you.

I promise.

And I’m a scary witch who keeps her promises.

TO BE CONTINUED

ESPECIALLY OFFENSIVE BOOKS THAT HAVE BEEN BANNED

as Dictated by The One Who Bans Books

THE BLUEPRINTS OF BRUNO GENET:
A particularly repugnant, rule-breaking experiment in mixing dramatic text with pictures. This story of a young inventor distracted many readers—young and old alike—and greatly reduced measurable productivity at schools, workplaces, and residences around the world.

MARGARET’S PEN:
The tale of a little girl, the barnyard animal she loves, and an unexpectedly small friend who saves the day. In the face of this ridiculous premise, its immense popularity is a prime example of just how flawed human society was in the days before the New Order.

THE PITCHER IN THE WHEAT:
An immensely corruptive “coming-of-age” tale about a youth who endeavors to infect the populace with his cynicism and world-weariness.

THE THUNDER STEALER:
This piece of fiction, steeped with references to some of the more outlandish legends of the Old World, is about a boy, Percival Johnson, who steals from the gods and brings down all kinds of divine wrath—and misadventure—upon himself. The entire series about this Percival Johnson is forbidden.

RATTERS’ TRIP DOWN:
The patently improbable saga of a pack of talking rodents who find their lives turned upside down by encroaching human development.

GARY BLOTTER AND THE GUILD OF REJECTS:
The deeply troubling story of a delusional boy who realizes his job as a scribe is much easier when he uses his so-called magical powers.

THE FIREGIRL SAGA:
This bizarre thread of folklore, which promotes secretive “love” relationships between humans and nonhumans, once bred massive, manic cults of creature-worshipping females.

THE ELDEST DRAGON:
This epic fairy tale not only illogically suggests that persons under the age of twenty-one are suitable for leadership roles but is also offensive in its glorification of the long-proved-mythical fire-breathing lizard.

SOME PARTICULARLY REPREHENSIBLE NOISE POLLUTERS OF THE FORMER AGE

as Defined by The One Who Monitors Auditory Stimuli

The Groaning Bones:
Their lineup changed over the many decades they made their so-called rock and roll, but—from horrible songs such as “Emerald Wednesday” to “[I’ve Got No] Retribution”—they were among the most successful bands of their benighted era.

Ron Sayer:
This young blues-rock star somehow won awards, dated superstars, and wowed audiences with songs such as “Your Skin Is an Amusement Park.”

B4:
The band from Emerald Isle that took the world by storm in the original New Wave (which was a musical movement and altogether different from and in no way related to the New Order) and then took the world by storm again a decade later, and then the decade after that…. One of the most popular, and outspoken, bands of that deluded epoch.

We Shall Be Titans:
A patently silly but nevertheless popular rock band that often featured the accordion, and whose deeply peculiar songs had been featured in the sound tracks of prime-time TV shows back in the days when there was more than One channel.