Magic in the Mix Page 12

  Robbie gazed at her sleepily. “My head hurts.”

  Miri’s eyes met Ray’s. “We’ll be back. I promise.”

  “Is this real?” he asked under his breath.

  She nodded and rose to her feet, turning to face the soldier bearing down on her with Molly at his side, babbling anxiously, “Pray, pray, pray, all day, all night. She’s just like that!”

  Miri arranged her face into the most spiritual expression she could manage and said solemnly, “Amen.”

  “Amen,” echoed Molly.

  “Humph!” sniffed the guard. “Git!”

  With one last look at Ray and Robbie, they got.

  Chapter 13

  Miri explained it to Molly in gasps as they ran. Flo, Pat Gardner, the safe-conduct signed by R. E. Lee.

  Molly stopped. “But we can’t get ahold of it. We can’t get to 1918, remember?”

  Miri bent double, her hands on her knees. “There’s got to be a way,” she panted. “I’ll do anything. If we knock over one of Ollie’s posts, maybe the old porch will come back. There’s got to be a way. That’s why we were sent to 1918. I know it.”

  Molly straightened. For a moment she looked away, into the woods. When she turned back to Miri, her face was pale. She looked intently at Miri. “We were sent there to hear about the safe-conduct?”

  Miri nodded.

  “So we could save Ray and Robbie?”

  Miri nodded.

  “Not so I could keep Maudie and Pat from meeting?”

  Miri nodded.

  Another pause. “So I don’t have to—” Molly was talking softly, almost to herself. “I don’t have to give you up?” She lifted her eyes to Miri’s. “Really?”

  “Really. You’re supposed to be my sister; you’re supposed to be one of us,” Miri said.

  She watched as a secret fear, cold and tight as an ice cube, melted away from her sister’s face. Then Molly gave a short, firm nod. “Okay,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “Okay, then. We’ll get that pass. No matter what it takes.”

  Miri couldn’t help grinning at the unstoppable determination in her voice. “Hi again,” she said. “It’s nice to have you back.”

  But after that, they just ran. They ran and ran and ran. Miri hadn’t known she could run for that long. A personal record, she thought, ducking under a stringy branch. Coach Vargas would be proud. Too bad I can’t tell him.

  When they finally emerged from the cover of trees, the half-size, Civil War version of the house was in sight, with its crushed and dangling porch. They pounded toward it. All they had to do was go through the door and they’d be home. They flew up the stairs.

  “Wait.” On the porch, Miri bent double again, panting.

  Molly, gasping herself, gave a questioning look.

  “Want to test it,” Miri panted, not very informatively. “That.” She pointed to the hole in the porch floor, where the mangled wood ended in a cliff hanging over empty air. “Looks like it got bombed.”

  “Shelled,” said Molly. “That’s what they called it.”

  “Whatever. It’s a hole in the house, isn’t it? Which means it’s a hole in time. It’ll take us somewhere, maybe to 1918,” Miri said.

  Molly shook her head. “Can’t. 1918 is forward.”

  “It could go in both directions,” said Miri.

  Molly looked at the broken-off edge suspiciously. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Don’t jump into it, okay?”

  “Why not? I can just come in the door again,” said Miri. She sidled around the precarious floorboards that curved, in a sort of half-circle rim, around the hole. “We’ve got to try everything, don’t we?” She leaned over. She could see the stubbly ground below. “There’s just grass down there—”

  And then she was pulled to her knees by a force stronger than gravity. She cried out, madly teetering on the wooden precipice, her hands scrabbling at empty air. She was falling, the earth below rushing toward her. Down she went, catching a flashing glimpse of the view beneath floor-level—trees pressed close to the house, very close, very dark, swaying angrily in the wind—and then two arms circled her middle, and she found herself slammed backward, hard.

  She lay there, gasping and shaking. “Wow,” she said when she could speak. “I almost—almost—” Her voice cracked. “That was scary.”

  “What was it?” Molly asked.

  Miri shivered. “Trees. Lots of them, really close. Like a forest. But—but—that wasn’t the scary part.”

  Molly waited.

  Miri looked fearfully toward the abrupt edge of wood. “The scary part was how much it wanted me to fall in.” She shivered. “Why? Why would it want that?”

  Molly thought for a moment. “I don’t think the magic started with the house.” Her eyes met Miri’s. “I think the magic started with the place. The house just happened to be built on top of it.” She glanced almost fearfully at the dangling floorboards. “I think there’s something really old down there. Old magic is the purest. The most undiluted. We don’t know what it wants.”

  Miri nodded, still staring at the hole. It showed no sign of what was inside. It looked completely innocent. Well, maybe not innocent, since it was made by a war, but explainable. Within the circle of history. Not like what she had just seen. The circle of history was tiny compared to the circle of time.

  “There’s going to be a point when we won’t be able to get home,” said Molly quietly. “There’s a time before the house. If we go there, there’s no way back.”

  Miri shivered again. “I think,” she said, trying to steady herself, “that we should find another way to get to 1918.”

  Molly nodded. “On to Plan B.”

  Plan B was simple. If Ollie’s perimeter of posts had blocked the time-tunnel to 1918, then destroying the perimeter would open it again. To punch a hole in time, all they had to do was knock down a single post. But knocking down Ollie’s posts proved to be more difficult than they had thought. Scrambling through the woods, Miri had imagined that a good, strong slam would dislodge a post from its hole. Wrong. A good, strong slam practically broke her arm. Ollie was sort of weird, but he built his porches to last. He didn’t just jam a post in the ground and build a porch on top of it. Nope. He stuck his posts into the ground with concrete. After Miri had finished hissing hurt-arm bad words, the girls decided to try breaking up the concrete with their father’s pickaxe. If they smashed the concrete to powder and then slammed, the post would surely fall.

  Miri glanced up, toward the kitchen above her head. She couldn’t believe that her parents hadn’t heard her bad words. Or Molly dropping the pickaxe. But apparently they hadn’t. No one was looking out the window, anyway. What if I were a burglar? she thought. “Go,” she said.

  With a grunt, Molly heaved the pickaxe up and over. It bounced off the concrete.

  Miri inspected it hopefully. Not even a crack. “Try again.”

  “Yow! That hurts,” Molly winced as the pickaxe boinged up again.

  “That darn Ollie,” said Miri. “You didn’t even make a dent. Try the crowbar.”

  “You.”

  “Okay. Keep an eye on the window.”

  They traded places. Miri jammed the crowbar into the shallow trench they had dug next to the hunk of concrete. She managed to get the iron bar about two inches below the surface of the earth. Then she pressed it into the side of the concrete block and stomped on the other end.

  It didn’t budge. Miri tried again. Nothing. It didn’t feel like magic. It felt like construction work.

  “What time do you think it is?” Molly muttered, looking at the sun.

  “Three, three thirty. Don’t look at the sky, look at the window,” Miri said crabbily. She whacked the concrete with the crowbar.

  “This isn’t working,” said Molly. “Got any other ideas?”

  Miri flung the crowbar to the ground. “No.”

  Molly rubbed her head. “I always think you’re going to come up with some brilliant idea.”

 
“I always think you’re going to make some brilliant move,” Miri sighed. “I don’t have any ideas.”

  “I don’t have any moves,” said Molly.

  Forlornly, they listened to the passing of the afternoon.

  Then Molly began to turn in a slow circle. “Will you help us?” she asked softly of the house, the grass, the trees. “We need you to show us what to do.”

  “Please,” Miri said, holding out her arms. “Just give us a hint, and we’ll take it from there. Give us one tiny piece.”

  They paused, but there was no answer, just a little breeze that curled through the trees, rustling the golden-green leaves.

  “You can’t want Ray and Robbie to die,” Molly begged. “That can’t be what you think is right.”

  A waft of air lifted her hair.

  “Thanks. A breeze. That’s helpful,” Miri said bitterly. “Stupid wind.” She pulled a wayward elm leaf out of her hair. “Stupid trees, stupid leaves.”

  “Wait,” said Molly.

  She snatched the leaf as it spiraled to the ground. “Maybe—that is the hint.” She gazed at the bit of green. “It’s from the elm.”

  Miri looked at it. It was an elm leaf. “So?”

  There was a pause. Then Molly looked up, her smile radiant. “In 1918, there was a tree house in the elm. Now it’s gone. There’s a hole in time, and it’s up in the elm tree. Bet you anything.”

  Miri looked at the little leaf. “Thank you,” she called to the world. And then, just in case the magic was touchy, “Sorry I said you were stupid.”

  Plan B, Part Two, was getting rid of Mom and Dad. Whacking pickaxes on concrete in the backyard without anyone noticing required luck, but dragging a ladder to the middle of the front yard, climbing into the elm tree, and then disappearing without anyone noticing required a lie.

  “… Plus, it’ll explain why Ray and Robbie are missing,” Molly was saying.

  “Right.” Miri nodded. “I know. But still.”

  “We have to,” said Molly.

  “I know. I just hate it, is all.”

  Molly pushed open the front door. “Hi, Mom!” she bellowed. “Hi!”

  “Too loud!” whispered Miri. “Act normal!”

  Mom’s voice whirled out of the kitchen. “Just where have the two of you been all afternoon, might I ask?” And there she was, hands on hips, eyebrows raised. “Were you perhaps someplace where telephones have not yet been invented?” Miri choked. “Why didn’t you call?”

  Molly took over. “We’re really sorry, Mom. We were over at Sophie’s and we totally lost track of time. Gosh, we’re sorry. Her mom is letting her get a tattoo.”

  Good one, admired Miri, as their mother was diverted into a lecture about bad decisions and future regrets. Tattoos were one of her great subjects, always ending in a description of how the butterfly of youth would look on the sagging flesh of old age. “Like fungus!” she concluded.

  “You’re right, Mom,” said Molly. “And next time, we’ll call. We’re sorry.” She smiled sincerely.

  “Good. You’d better,” said Mom. There was a pause. “Say, girls?” She was trying to sound casual, but her voice rose anxiously. “Do you know where your brothers went? No one’s seen them since this morning. I knew they’d probably go off in a huff, but I thought they’d be back by now. I called that dopey Rudy they love so much, but he hadn’t seen them. I even called Mr. Emory. I didn’t think they’d dare disobey, but I wasn’t—well, anyway, he said they’d called him for a ride, but then they didn’t turn up. …” Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip. “Do you have any idea where they are?”

  Miri saw the worry on her mother’s face and wished she didn’t have to do what she was about to do. “Well,” she said uncertainly. She and Molly exchanged purposely meaningful looks.

  “What?” said Mom, swallowing the bait.

  Molly grimaced. “Um, I think—um—well, I don’t know for sure, but I think—maybe they went to, um, Winchester.”

  Miri nodded reluctantly.

  “Winchester?” their mother repeated. “Why would they? How would they?”

  “Bus,” whispered Molly.

  “But why? And why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Mom.

  “We didn’t know!” Miri felt bad about protecting herself while she was throwing her brothers to the dogs, but it had to be done. “We heard about it. We heard some guy at school say that Deathbag—you know, that gross band they’re into?—was playing in Winchester, and he said Ray said he and Robbie were going to take the bus, but we thought they were kidding.”

  “Until now,” added Molly.

  Their mother put her hands over her eyes. Miri looked guiltily at Molly. “Why are they so dumb?” groaned Mom. She took her hands away from her face and asked, “Where’s the band playing?”

  “Well, it’s Deathbag,” said Miri slowly. “They only play in cemeteries.” She was feeling guiltier and guiltier. Her poor parents were going to drive all the way to Winchester and go from cemetery to cemetery for nothing. They were going to be worried. They were going to be really, really worried. She felt terrible.

  “Cemeteries!” wailed her mother. “How can that be legal?”

  “It’s not,” said Molly in a small voice. “That’s why they never announce it.” Their parents would never check, they had decided. And Deathbag had played in a cemetery. Once.

  “It’s just a stage,” their mother said. “They’re thirteen years old and their judgment is impaired. It’s perfectly normal.” She rubbed her forehead wearily. “Probably every mom has to drive thirty miles and search through cemeteries for her sons. Right?” she asked her daughters. They nodded. “I hope so. Frank!” she called up the stairs. “Nora! Nellie! Time for a road trip!” She turned back to Miri and Molly. “Thank you for telling me,” she said and reached to pat their cheeks.

  That made them feel even worse.

  Ten minutes later, the van was crunching down the driveway.

  “I don’t think I can hold still much longer,” muttered Miri. Her leg was jiggling uncontrollably—it wanted to run, to hurry, to get.

  “Just another minute, until they get out of the driveway,” said Molly through gritted teeth. Their mother turned to wave at them. They waved back.

  The van pulled out into the road, and their hands dropped to their sides. “Now!”

  And now for Plan B, Part Three. In no time at all, the ladder was set against the elm tree’s stubbly gray trunk.

  From the porch, Cookie observed their movements with concern. The humans were attempting to climb a tree. Humans didn’t climb trees. Cats climbed trees. Trees were, in fact, the property of cats. No trespassers. Cookie rose to her feet and trotted out to the front yard to claim her possession.

  Chapter 14

  Two-thirds of the way up the ladder, Miri paused and closed her eyes, trying to recollect the precise position of the tree house. The tree had been shorter then, much shorter, its branches closer to the ground. Higher than the windows on the first floor? Maybe. Lower than the windows on the second? Maybe. She climbed another rung. That high? She didn’t know. There was only one way to find out.

  She swung her foot out, poking the air, seeking a floor, or a wall, or even a roof—had the tree house had a roof? She couldn’t remember. She had only seen it for a moment and from far away. Her foot waved uselessly through space. Miri edged to the farthest inch of the rung and poked the air again.

  Nothing.

  She looked down, to where Molly was waiting three rungs below. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. Each knew what the other was thinking: What if this doesn’t work? Then what?

  It had to work. It had to. Miri climbed up to the next rung. She had only three more to go, and the top rung featured a special sign that read THIS IS NOT A STEP. Which it totally was. She would step on it anyway. Why include a rung no one can step on? she argued, as again, she swung her foot over the side of the ladder and kicked investigatively. Back and forth. This way and that. Up
and—

  Thonk.

  She’d hit something. Something hard. Something that sounded like wood. Once again, Miri kicked. Thonk. She’d found it!

  She leaned forward, into the void, and patted her hand cautiously—pat, pat, pat—there! Under her fingers, she felt a rough edge of splintering wood. It was a board. “Got it!” she said.

  “Step out onto it,” said Molly. “I’m right behind you.”

  Miri clung to the precarious ladder with one arm and stretched the other out as far as she could, seeking a surface—there! There, there, there. Now for her foot. Pat, pat, pat—a floor! Hmm. Hope it’s wide enough, she thought. If I fall out of the tree and break my arm, which century will I fall into? What did they do with broken arms in 1918? Oh shut up, she ordered herself, and swung sideways off the ladder.

  At the foot of the tree, Cookie snapped her tail back and forth to summon her energy. She began with an invigorating skitter sideways, followed by a frantic race around the tree. Then she hurled herself at the trunk, where she hung, breathing heavily, for a moment before dashing madly up the bark.

  “Cookie!” scolded Molly. “Stop running around. You’re going to—”

  In a frenzy, Cookie lunged between Miri and the ladder and took a flying leap at a branch below. “Yow!” squealed both cat and girl as they fell forward into nothing and disappeared.

  “Whew.” Molly ducked her head and crawled into the tree house. “That was pretty stomach-churning.”

  Miri wedged herself into a corner to make room for her sister. Cookie squeaked a protest, and Miri scowled at her. “You! You practically broke my neck! I’m lucky I fell into that window over there,” she explained to Molly, pointing. “I guess it’s a window, anyway. Or maybe it’s just where the boards have fallen off.”

  “Not the sturdiest tree house in the world,” Molly remarked, looking through the branches. “But cute.”

  With guilt in the twenty-first century and war in the nineteenth, the twentieth century seemed, at first glance, like a vacation. The golden autumn afternoon was drawing to a close. In the depths of the tree, the shadows were deep and cool, but out in the branches, the leaves of the elm glittered bright, and over by the barn, comfortable animal sounds percolated. Ahead of them, the house lay clean and white and normal, looking like it had never heard of magic.