Quiet Magic by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Authors: Steve Miller, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
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her tongue out at him. You went nowhere in this
school unless you went in a line, it seemed, and he stood as still
as he was able, chewing on his lip as Uncle Tulaine always chided
him for, until the teacher was satisfied that they were all each
behind the other, that there was silence, more or less, and
condescended to lead them to the cafeteria.
Now, red-and-white milk carton before
him on the table, he slowly uncurled the top of his lunch bag.
Carefully, he took out and unwrapped the sandwich made with
Father's good, dark bread and thick slices of Uncle Tulaine's
golden cheese. He sighed, resting a moment before reaching into the
bag--a small yellow-haired boy in a plaid shirt and blue jeans,
sitting just a little apart from the other children on the long
bench.
Dessert was a slice of Aunt Jessie's
butter cake and an apple from their own tree. His napkin was linen,
which he saw was an oddity among his classmates.
He reached into the bag once more and
brought out the final item; unwrapped it slowly from its parchment
twist.
Mint green it was, with a runnel of
blue toward the wick, hardly thicker than the boy's forefinger, yet
straight and shiny and smooth.
He smiled then, shoulders slumping as
the tension left them. They had given him one of Elmira's
candles.
He held it in his hands for a moment,
eyes half-closed. Elmira was his favorite among the aunts--a tall
young woman, flame straight, cool and nearly aloof, quiet with a
silence that invited words, should you need to speak
them.
He smiled again, pulled a lucifer from
his pocket, scraped it on the underside of the table and touched
the flame for an instant to the bottom of his luncheon candle, here
on this, his first day of school. He pushed the softened wax onto
the spread-out sandwich paper and moved to touch the flame to the
wick of Elmira's candle--
A hand snatched downward, wrestling
the match from his fingers, knocking the candle askew--above his
head was the sound of air being expelled--perhaps to extinguish a
flame--and then a pretty, strident voice:
"Jeffy Eljensen! Just what do you
think you're doing, lighting a match! Fire is much too dangerous
for little boys like you to play with!"
Jeffrey's hand shot out, covering
Elmira's candle; pulling it toward him. The teacher pounced,
capturing his wrist.
"What's that? More matches, you bad
boy?
He resisted her attempt to lift his
hand, Uncle Tulaine's voice coaching him from memory: "Strength is
like a river inside you, that may be diverted where you will. Has
someone grabbed your arm, tried to wrest away from you that which
you must keep? Well, divert your river of strength to that
arm--what matter the rest of the body in such a case?"
"Jeffrey Eljensen--" panted the
teacher, pulling ineffectively at his protecting hand. Jeffrey
gritted his teeth, squinted his eyes and concentrated on his river
of strength as a new voice broke over his head.
"Miss Lyle? What seems to be the
problem?" A man's voice this, growling deep. The teacher's plump
hand dropped away, her voice gobbling of fire and dangers and the
dire possibilities that dwelt in what lay hidden. Jeffrey closed
his eyes, anticipating the man's assault.
"Miss Lyle," said the man, softly for
so big a voice; "perhaps you could take the rest of your class
elsewhere."
There was startled silence; Jeffrey
was tempted into opening his eyes to slits. His teacher protested
that the other children had begun their lunches. The growling voice
replied that they could move to a table across the room.
After another hesitation, Miss Lyle
began giving orders. A little girl's voice rose clearly above the
hubbub:
"But why should we have to move when
it's the new boy who's bad?"
"Never mind, Sally," Miss Lyle
soothed, "Just pack up your things and we'll move..."
Jeffrey tipped his face a bit
sideways, his eyes nearly all the way open.
The man with the growling voice was
very tall--Jeffrey saw brown corduroy trousers, a battered black
leather belt and the
school unless you went in a line, it seemed, and he stood as still
as he was able, chewing on his lip as Uncle Tulaine always chided
him for, until the teacher was satisfied that they were all each
behind the other, that there was silence, more or less, and
condescended to lead them to the cafeteria.
Now, red-and-white milk carton before
him on the table, he slowly uncurled the top of his lunch bag.
Carefully, he took out and unwrapped the sandwich made with
Father's good, dark bread and thick slices of Uncle Tulaine's
golden cheese. He sighed, resting a moment before reaching into the
bag--a small yellow-haired boy in a plaid shirt and blue jeans,
sitting just a little apart from the other children on the long
bench.
Dessert was a slice of Aunt Jessie's
butter cake and an apple from their own tree. His napkin was linen,
which he saw was an oddity among his classmates.
He reached into the bag once more and
brought out the final item; unwrapped it slowly from its parchment
twist.
Mint green it was, with a runnel of
blue toward the wick, hardly thicker than the boy's forefinger, yet
straight and shiny and smooth.
He smiled then, shoulders slumping as
the tension left them. They had given him one of Elmira's
candles.
He held it in his hands for a moment,
eyes half-closed. Elmira was his favorite among the aunts--a tall
young woman, flame straight, cool and nearly aloof, quiet with a
silence that invited words, should you need to speak
them.
He smiled again, pulled a lucifer from
his pocket, scraped it on the underside of the table and touched
the flame for an instant to the bottom of his luncheon candle, here
on this, his first day of school. He pushed the softened wax onto
the spread-out sandwich paper and moved to touch the flame to the
wick of Elmira's candle--
A hand snatched downward, wrestling
the match from his fingers, knocking the candle askew--above his
head was the sound of air being expelled--perhaps to extinguish a
flame--and then a pretty, strident voice:
"Jeffy Eljensen! Just what do you
think you're doing, lighting a match! Fire is much too dangerous
for little boys like you to play with!"
Jeffrey's hand shot out, covering
Elmira's candle; pulling it toward him. The teacher pounced,
capturing his wrist.
"What's that? More matches, you bad
boy?
He resisted her attempt to lift his
hand, Uncle Tulaine's voice coaching him from memory: "Strength is
like a river inside you, that may be diverted where you will. Has
someone grabbed your arm, tried to wrest away from you that which
you must keep? Well, divert your river of strength to that
arm--what matter the rest of the body in such a case?"
"Jeffrey Eljensen--" panted the
teacher, pulling ineffectively at his protecting hand. Jeffrey
gritted his teeth, squinted his eyes and concentrated on his river
of strength as a new voice broke over his head.
"Miss Lyle? What seems to be the
problem?" A man's voice this, growling deep. The teacher's plump
hand dropped away, her voice gobbling of fire and dangers and the
dire possibilities that dwelt in what lay hidden. Jeffrey closed
his eyes, anticipating the man's assault.
"Miss Lyle," said the man, softly for
so big a voice; "perhaps you could take the rest of your class
elsewhere."
There was startled silence; Jeffrey
was tempted into opening his eyes to slits. His teacher protested
that the other children had begun their lunches. The growling voice
replied that they could move to a table across the room.
After another hesitation, Miss Lyle
began giving orders. A little girl's voice rose clearly above the
hubbub:
"But why should we have to move when
it's the new boy who's bad?"
"Never mind, Sally," Miss Lyle
soothed, "Just pack up your things and we'll move..."
Jeffrey tipped his face a bit
sideways, his eyes nearly all the way open.
The man with the growling voice was
very tall--Jeffrey saw brown corduroy trousers, a battered black
leather belt and the
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