The Magician's Boy by Susan Cooper Page A

the Father Christmas puppet on his hook, and took the bright green Dragon from the row of hanging puppets. He pulled the strings to make the Dragon run onstage.
    The children shouted and hissed. The Boy made the Dragon open its fearsome red jaws at them, and huff out a puff of white smoke.
    The children howled with joy.
    â€œSaint George!” cried the Magician, and the Boy hastily hung up the Dragon puppet and reached for the bold little figure of Saint George, with his sword and shield, and the red cross on his white tunic.
    But the Saint George puppet wasn’t there.
    The other puppets all hung from their strings behind the stage, waiting. There was Father Christmas, and the Turkish Knight with his curving sword, and the black-coated Doctor. But there was no Saint George.
    The Boy looked round, in panic.
    â€œSAINT GEORGE!” roared the Magician impatiently.
    The Boy was terrified. He stepped out from behind the theatre and stood there shaking. “I’m sorry, Master,” he said in a very small voice, “Saint George seems to be missing.”
    The children all booed loudly.
    The Magician looked down with eyes so angry that the Boy was afraid he would turn him into a rabbit. The Magician’s tall figure seemed to grow and grow, towering over the Boy, and he pointed a long finger at him.
    â€œThen you must find him!” he hissed. The finger came very close, with its long sharp nail. “You will go where you must go, through all the Land of Story, until you find Saint George!”

    He swung his arm so that his long dark-blue sleeve swung past the Boy’s face, and the Boy saw gold moons and stars flash by, and felt himself falling, falling….

The Boy fell to the ground and opened his eyes.
    The Magician and the children were gone. He seemed to be in a wood. The trees all looked oddly round and stiff, like the trees he had painted on the back wall of the stage.
    And standing around him he saw, to his amazement, the puppets from his play: Father Christmas, the Turkish Knight, theDoctor, and the Dragon. But they weren’t puppets now. They were alive, and bigger than he was himself.
    The Dragon was
much
bigger. He opened his red jaws and roared, with a far more impressive puff of smoke than the Boy ever gave him. Father Christmas, the Turkish Knight and the Doctor all screamed, and ran away. The Dragon ran after them, chasing them into the wood, roaring.
    The Boy was left alone, staring around. Where was he?
    He heard a cough. It seemed to come from behind the nearest tree. He went to look, and found a low wooden signpost. Its two arms pointed in opposite directions, and there were words painted on them.

    The words said:
    Only a child can find the way To bring Saint George back to the play.
    The Boy read this to himself, twice.
    â€œWell, that’s no help!” he said, and he turned away to look for a path through the wood.
    â€œHey!” said a voice.
    The Boy turned. He could see nothing but the signpost. “Where are you?” he said. “Who is it?”
    â€œI’m here!” said the voice. It was a gruff little voice. It sounded cross.
    Suddenly the Boy saw that the signpost was jumping up and down. It had two short legs, with large feet, wearing boots.
    â€œYou can talk!” he said.
    â€œI know that,” said the signpost. “But can you read?”
    â€œOf course I can,” said the Boy. He pointed to the words on the signpost, and read them aloud:
    â€œOnly a child can find the way To bring Saint George back to the play.”
    â€œThere you are then,” said the signpost. It bounced up and down on its two little legs, and clicked its boots together.
    â€œThat’s useless,” the Boy said. “It doesn’t tell me where the way
is.”
    â€œUse your head,” said the signpost. “You’re in the Land of Story. You have to travel through stories.”
    â€œWhat stories?” said the