Quiet Magic by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller Page B

we are a
family," he explained, trying not to snap again. "Everybody in the
family makes candles. And everybody in the family uses candles at
every meal. That way, we remember and feel close and stay--" he
waved his own hand in unconscious imitation of his father, "and
stay a family. Stay belonging. We've got candles that
Great-great-grandfather made, and candles from Jason, who went to
Alaska. And Jason's got candles from me and from Phoenix and Elmira
and everybody." He stopped suddenly, embarrassed at having shown so
much to this large and probably heedless stranger.
    But the big man was nodding again, and
smiling easily. "So everybody in the family makes
candles--everybody has a different style? They'd have to, wouldn't
they?" He answered his own question with a grin. "So you'd be able
to tell whose candle you're using?"
    Jeffrey nodded, then sat very still,
considering. Slowly he raised his protecting hand, lifted the
candle and brought it round so the man could see.
    "This is the candle Aunt Jessie picked
for my lunch today," he said, speaking slowly, choosing his words
with even more than his usual care. "Aunt Elmira made it. Her
candles are mostly minty green or blue--sometimes a kind of frosty
pink color. Nobody else in the family makes candles like hers. For
one thing, nobody else can get those exact colors. For another,
other people like other colors, other styles." He paused; the man
beside him made a hand gesture for continuance.
    Jeffrey drew a deep breath. "Uncle
Tulaine's candles are yellow like his cheeses, and thick. They burn
bright and long. Father's are multicolored, layer on layer of
different colors. Phoenix sculpts hers..."
    "And yours?"
    "Mine?" Jeffrey shook himself, laid
Elmira's candle carefully back on the wax paper next to his
sandwich. "It depends. Sometimes I just make blocks of wax and
carve them. I'm not very good at tapers. They never come out right
for me." He smiled at the man, feeling very hungry now. "Aunt
Elmira says it's because I'm not firm enough when I roll them.
Uncle Tulaine says it's because I never know how I want things to
turn out."
    Rob Davis sighed. "Thank you," he
said, though Jeffrey did not understand what for.
    "It's been nice talking with you," he
told the man politely, "But I'm hungry and would like to eat my
lunch."
    "Certainly," said the man, getting to
his feet and sketching what seemed to be a bow. Jeffrey grinned
again at the parody of Uncle Tulaine; turned to his
sandwich--recalled.
    "Mr. Davis."
    "Rob," the man corrected.
    "Jeffrey nodded. "Rob. Can you lend me
a match, please?"
    "A match?" the man repeated. "To light
your candle, Jeffrey?"
    The boy held onto his temper. Really,
these people at school were too dense. Hadn't he just explained
--
    "I want to eat my lunch," he told the
man, dropping each word like a stone. "And my candle is
unlit."
    There was a small silence, then a
large sigh. The big man hunkered down by the bench, folded his arms
on the seat and looked sideways at the boy.
    He sighed again, for the boy was
angry, with a controlled outrage that went far beyond his six
years, and the explanation that Rob Davis had to give would not
satisfy that anger.
    "Okay, Jeffrey, here's the idea.
Schools have rules. A great many of them are senseless, taken
individually, measured against one person at a time..." He paused
to make sure of his audience. Jeffrey nodded curtly, looking pale
and angry and more than a little hungry. The bell rang to end the
lunch period. Rob shifted his arms, reviewing the explanation that
became less reasonable as he unfolded it. "Ah-h-h. One of the rules
is that children in the school may not use fire--may not even light
the candles on a cake at a classmate's birthday party. The reason
for the rule is that fire is dangerous and, should even one person
be just a little careless, the building might catch on fire and
many people lose their lives. That is the rule and the
reason.
    "Thus," Rob concluded, forcing himself
to look