The Real Boy

CHAPTER ONE

The Cellar Boy

The residents of the gleaming hilltop town of Asteri called their home, simply, the City. The residents of the Barrow—the tangle of forest and darkness that encircled the bottom of Asteri’s hill like a shadowy moat—called Asteri the Shining City, and those who lived there the shining people. The Asterians didn’t call themselves anything special, because when everyone else refers to you as the shining people, you really don’t have to do it yourself.

Massive stone walls towered around the City, almost as tall as the great trees in the forest. And, though you could not tell by looking at them, the walls writhed with enchantments.

For protection, the people of the City said.

For show, the magic smiths of the Barrow said. After all, it was in the dark of the Barrow where the real magic lay.

And indeed, the people of Asteri streamed through the walls and down the tall hill to the shops of the Barrow marketplace, buying potions and salves, charms and wards, spells and pretty little enchanted things. They could not do any magic themselves, but they had magic smiths to do it for them. And really, wasn’t that better anyway?

The Barrow even had one magic worker so skilled he called himself a magician. Master Caleb was the first magician in a generation, and he helped the Asterians shine even more brightly. He had an apprentice, like most magic smiths. But like the wizards of old, he also took on a hand—a young boy from the Children’s Home—to do work too menial for a magician’s apprentice.

The boy, who was called Oscar, spent most of his time underneath Caleb’s shop, tucked in a small room in the cellar, grinding leaves into powders, extracting oils from plants, pouring tinctures into small vials—kept company by the quiet, the dark, the cocoon of a room, and a steady rotation of murmuring cats. It was a good fate for an orphan.

Hey, Mouse!

Except for one thing.

Come out, come out, Mouse! Are you there?

At the sound of the apprentice’s voice calling down the cellar stairs, a large gray cat picked herself up from the corner and brushed softly against Oscar. It’s all right, Oscar whispered. I’ll be fine. The cat sprang up and disappeared into the dark.

The apprentice’s name was Wolf, because sometimes the universe is an unsubtle place. And even now Oscar sometimes found himself expecting an actual wolf to appear in place of the boy, as if the boy were just a lie they were all telling themselves.

Where are you, little rodent?

Oscar put down his pestle. He was not a rodent, but that never seemed to stop Wolf from calling him one. I’m here, he called back. Stupid Wolf. As if one could be anywhere else but here.

Wolf appeared in the pantry door. He was only four years older than Oscar but almost twice as tall. With his elongated frame, the apprentice seemed all bones and hollows in the lantern light. He looked around the room, dark eyes flicking across the floor.

Where are your little cat friends, Mouse?

Not here, Oscar said.

Like he would tell Wolf. Only Oscar knew the cats’ secrets, and he guarded them closely. He knew all their names, he knew the sound of their footfalls, he knew where each of them slept, hid, stalked, he knew which one would visit him at what time of day. The gray cat with the lantern-bright green eyes was Crow, and she liked to come into the pantry in the mornings and nestle in the parchment envelopes.

I don’t actually care, Wolf said. He turned his gaze to the towering wall of shelves behind him. We need some raspberry leaf for a Shiner. Now.

Oscar didn’t even have to look. He could see the jars on the pantry shelves just as clearly in his head. There’s none left.

Wolf narrowed his eyes but did not question Oscar. A couple of years ago the apprentice would have stalked over to the shelves himself to make sure. Except every time he did, he’d discover that Oscar was right. Then he’d get angry and kick Oscar. It worked out better for both of them this way.

Wolf scanned the room. Well, what about that? He pointed at a jar at Oscar’s feet filled with dry, crumbled green leaves.

That’s walnut leaves! Oscar said.

It looks the same. Give me four packets.

But . . . , Oscar sputtered, chest tightening. How could Wolf think they looked the same? That’s not what they want. It won’t work. In fact, the herbs were opposite—raspberry leaf was to protect a relationship and walnut leaf was to break one up. But Wolf did not like it when Oscar knew such things.

Oh, it won’t work! Wolf exclaimed, slapping his hands on his forehead. "I had no idea! What would I, apprentice to the Barrow’s only true magician, do if it weren’t for the cellar mouse to tell me that it won’t work!"

Well, Oscar said, you could always look it up in the library.

Wolf’s eyes flared. Oscar flinched. He hadn’t even been trying to make Wolf angry; all he’d done was answer his question.

Wolf took a step closer to Oscar. Do you even know what a freak you are? he asked. There’s a reason Caleb keeps you in the basement. His eyes flicked from Oscar to the doorway and back. Anyway, who cares about the herbs? It’s a Shiner. She won’t know the difference.

But . . . what if she does? The words popped out of Oscar’s mouth before he could stop them. He could not help it—they were fluttering around in his head and needed to get out.

Wolf drew himself up. Look, Mouse, he said, voice carnivorous. She won’t. Shiners want magic to work, and so it works. If you weren’t dumb as a goat, you’d know that.

Oscar smashed his lips together. If that was true, it was no magic he understood.

You let Caleb and me worry about the customers, Wolf continued. You can worry about the cats, and your little plants, and—

But whatever else Oscar had to worry about would remain a mystery, for just then the magician’s voice came echoing down into the cellar, calling for Wolf.

The apprentice turned, collecting his bones and hollows. Bring the walnut leaves up as soon as you have them ready, he said as he moved out the door. And for the love of the wizards, he added, don’t come out into the shop. We want the customers to come back.

Five minutes later Oscar was creeping into the shop’s kitchen, four packets of herbs in his hands. They were not walnut leaves. He hadn’t had much time, so he’d put together a package of passionflower and verbena, which at least would not cause active harm.

From his position in the doorway he could see Master Caleb leaning across the shop counter, his tree-dark eyes focused on the lady before him as if they existed for nothing but to behold her.

The shining people didn’t actually shine, not like a lantern or a firefly or a crystal in the light. But they might as well have. The young lady in front of Caleb looked like all the City people did—perfectly smooth olive-touched skin, cheeks with color and flesh, hair done up in some elaborate sculpture of braids and bejeweled pins, a gleaming amulet around her neck, wearing a dress of such intricately detailed fabric it made Oscar’s hands hurt just to look at it.

Wolf appeared in the kitchen and immediately grabbed the packets out of Oscar’s hand. Oscar gazed steadily at Wolf’s chest. The passionflower looks like walnut leaves, he whispered in his mind—though whether to convince himself or Wolf he was not sure.

Wolf eyed the contents and sniffed, then turned and went back into the shop. His whole body seemed to change as he walked through the door, as if he were transforming from beast to human.

Oscar let out a breath and then suddenly caught it again. Wolf was handing the packets not to the customer, but to Master Caleb. Who was expecting raspberry leaves. Oscar had never made a mistake, not with herbs anyway, not in five years.

Caleb took the packets in his hand. Oscar’s heart thudded. But Caleb just smiled at the customer, his mouth spreading widely across his face the way it always did when there was a woman on the other side of the counter. He looked as though nothing had ever made him so happy as giving her what she wanted.

The lady smiled back. And her cheeks flushed, just a little.

Four envelopes of raspberry leaves, my lady, said Caleb. Though—he leaned even closer—I don’t see how a lady like you would need such a thing.

Oh, she said, laughing like a chime, you can never be too careful.

Caleb straightened and ran a hand slowly through his dark hair. The lady’s hand flew to hers.

I agree, Caleb said. And that’s why we’re here. We in the Barrow serve at your pleasure. He leaned again, and his face grew serious. Whatever you need.

The woman opened the package and inhaled deeply. Oscar froze. He hadn’t had time to mask the smell, and surely the verbena—

I just love the smell of raspberry, she said.

We’ll mix up some perfume for you if you want. You have such natural beauty—we could put in things that would . . . enhance it.

The lady’s smile grew. I’ll come back next week, she said, and then gave a little laugh. It’s true what they say, isn’t it? Everything is better here than anywhere else in the world. For a moment her eyes dropped on Oscar in the doorway and then moved away, as if they had seen nothing at all.

Wolf appeared next to Oscar and leaned in. He’s quite a master, isn’t he? the apprentice whispered, nodding in Caleb’s direction.

Oscar could only nod back. Of course he was. Wasn’t that the entire point?

Just before she got to the door, the lady stopped and smelled her envelopes again. And then she turned, gave Caleb one last raspberry smile, and left.

I don’t understand, Oscar muttered.

You don’t understand anything, Wolf said. Caleb is a genius. He makes all the old wizards look like little cellar boys.

Oscar inwardly winced. No one talked about the wizards that way. He half expected a shelf to fall on Wolf’s head.

It didn’t. Shelves never fell on Wolf’s head when Oscar wanted them to.

Caleb can do things no one’s ever done before, incredible things. Wolf looked down at Oscar, his eyes sparkling. I know. While you’re in the cellar filling envelopes, he’s teaching me everything. He’s going to make magic great again, greater than it ever was in the era of the wizards, and I’m helping him. You—

In a flash Wolf shut his mouth, turned around, and transformed into Nice Wolf. It was his best feat of magic. Master Caleb was hanging on the door frame, leaning in. Caleb was taller than Wolf, and there were no bones and hollows to him. Caleb filled everything.

Ah, you’re both here, Caleb said. Oscar, why don’t you go to the gardens this afternoon? I believe we are low on supplies . . . particularly raspberry leaves.

Oscar’s stomach dropped to his feet.

Caleb turned his gaze to Wolf. And, Wolf, why don’t you stay in the kitchen the rest of the day and sort the dried herbs. It seems like the time with them would do you some good.

Wolf stiffened. Oscar gulped.

Turning back to Oscar, Caleb added, Not bad, my boy. But next time, add some rose hips or another berry leaf for scent.

The magician raised his eyebrows slightly. Oscar’s mouth hung open. Then Caleb winked, ever so quickly, before heading back into the shop.

Oscar exhaled. He could feel his mouth twitching into a smile. Caleb’s words perched on his shoulders: Not bad, my boy.

And then the smile fled, and the words, too. Wolf turned on him, all beast. You think you’re Caleb’s little pet, eh? he snarled. I don’t know what you did, Mouse, but you will regret it.

Oscar stepped back. He didn’t know what he had done, either, but Wolf was definitely right: Whatever it was, he would certainly regret it.

Oscar was out the back door of the shop and into the forest before Wolf got a chance to pounce. Some presence followed him, something soft and stealthy and entirely un-Wolflike. Oscar turned around and a smile spread across his face. Are you going to keep me company, Crow? he whispered.

The smoke-gray cat’s eyes danced, and she slipped next to Oscar, as close as a shadow.

Oscar had been to every part of the forest, including the thin strips in the southwest and northwest that wrapped around Asteri’s hill like fingers, buffering the City from the plaguelands and the sea beyond. Though hundreds of people lived in the forest’s villages, and though the forest was miles wide and even more miles across, it felt as secure and familiar as Oscar’s own pantry. Better, because there were only wolves, and no Wolf.

The rest of the villagers had their gardens and pastures just outside the northeast of the forest, in the swath of fertile land that separated the eastern Barrow from the plaguelands. And their barns and stables, too. No farm animals liked being in the Barrow—except for Madame Catherine’s Most Spectacular Goat.

But Caleb’s gardens were in the southeast. And though everyone knew of their majesty, no one would ever find them. Caleb had hidden them behind an illusion spell, so anyone who did not know what was actually there would see only a meadow. The secret belonged to Caleb, Oscar, Wolf, and the trees.

The magic of the Barrow came from its soil, and the soil birthed a half a world’s worth of plants and countless species of trees—from black cherry to red mulberry, quaking aspen to weeping willow, silver maple to golden rain, persimmon to pawpaw. Plants and shrubs and flowers grew everywhere; purplish-greenish moss crawled on the rocks; improbable mushrooms sprang from the soil in tiny little groves of their own.

But nothing compared to the wizard trees. The great oak trees grew to the sky like ladders for giants or gods, and spread their twisting branches as far out over the soil below as they could.

Once upon a time, magic flourished on all of Aleth-eia. And for centuries, legendary wizards worked the island’s magic. The wizards were so powerful that they never died—when it was time for their human life to end, they would make their way into the Barrow forest, plant their feet in the hungry soil, and transform. Their body and spirit would go, but their essence would live on forever in a majestic, thriving monument. It was the only fitting end for a wizard of Aletheia. This was the island’s gift to the wizards who tended to its magic and made the island thrive. Everyone knew the story.

And the wizards had never stopped serving Aleth-eia. When they became trees, their magic spread down through their roots, infusing the forest earth. And that was why the Barrow was a place like no other.

At some point the last wizard of Aletheia became a tree, and some time after that the island brought forth sorcerers—not nearly as powerful, but still with the ability to work the magic for the good of the people. Gradually the sorcerers faded, too, and were replaced by magicians, and then the magicians by magic smiths. Until Caleb, that is.

The forest had exactly one hundred wizard trees, and Oscar knew every one of them. He could close his eyes and see the map of them covering the forest, watching over it, feeding it with magic. Whenever Oscar touched one, he could feel some warmth humming just beneath the surface. And whenever he passed one, anything that was buzzing or roiling inside him stilled.

When he reached the edge of the forest, Oscar stopped. He had crossed through the line of trees into the gardens countless times, and each time he had to will himself to do it. Because maybe this would be the time Oscar would step through and the gardens would be gone, and Oscar would fall into the sky.

He looked at Crow, who trilled at him. He took a deep breath. He stepped forward. The trees released him, and the ground caught him; It’s all right.

The gardens stretched along the edge of the forest, over an area three times as big as the main courtyard in the marketplace, a small orchard, rows of bushes, and plants of all kinds spreading out everywhere. Angelica, anise, arrowroot. It was all perfectly organized, logical—you didn’t even need to think to find what you wanted. Basil, bay leaf, bergamot, borage.

In the back stood Caleb’s towering achievement, the greatest man-made thing in the forest. And probably the entire world.

When Caleb had begun to import plants from far-off countries, things that didn’t even grow in the Barrow (eucalyptus, wolfberry, saffron, bellflower), he’d announced he was going to design a house to hold them all, someplace bright and lush and moist to trick the plants into thinking they were somewhere warm and wet.

The result was a great steam house—the biggest building Oscar had ever seen. Panels of glass as tall as Caleb’s shop and just as wide stood proudly next to one another, embraced all around by iron. A peaked glass roof sat on top, catching the sun and cradling the plants, giving them a place that was even better than home.

Walking into the house felt like stepping into an enchantment. It was a completely different world, warmer than the real world ever was, and the air had texture and moisture and life. The flowers burst forth in colors no illustration in a book had ever been able to reproduce—they looked like birds, like bells, like butterflies. They made even the clothes of the shining people seem dull. Oscar always stepped quietly through the glass house, trying to make as little disturbance as he could. He was trespassing; this house belonged to the flowers.

Oscar took a cart from the side of the glass house and began moving it through the gardens. He scanned the pantry shelves in his mind, making a list of jars that needed filling. He worked for two hours among the green and thriving things, picking plants, trimming off leaves and flowers, plucking berries, until his cart was full. He found Crow curled up near the raspberry bushes, as if to remind him not to forget the leaves.

It’s time to go, Oscar whispered. It will be dark soon.

Crow blinked up at him sleepily.

Oscar sighed. You’re not going to walk, are you? The cat eyed him, as if that was a very stupid question. All right, Oscar said, picking Crow up in his arms and putting her in a corner of the cart. She crawled onto a pile of meadowsweet and immediately curled up again. Well, Oscar murmured, those needed to be crushed anyway.

It was near dark when Oscar got home. He opened the back door of the shop carefully—maybe if the door moved slowly enough Wolf would not notice a thing. But Wolf was not there. Crow jumped out of the cart, and Oscar unloaded everything into the kitchen and crept back down to his pantry.

As soon as his hands were working the mortar and pestle, everything else was gone. It was just his hands, the plants, the cool brass, the steady crushing and grinding, as soothing and steadfast as a cat’s purr.

He made dough with anise and slippery-elm powder, picked off small pieces, and rolled them in his hands so they were the size of tiny pellets, small enough that people could swallow them. You had to roll them for a hundred counts, one at a time—one, two, three, four—all the way up to a hundred. Your hands became infused with the sharp, sweet smell, as if you yourself had absorbed some little bit of magic. He fed mugwort leaves into his small mill and turned the crank—fifty times, for mugwort, as fast as your hands could go, and faster still. He peeled white bark off pieces of birch and then smoothed out the wood so it was prepared for Caleb to carve charms. He cleaned and polished some of the strangely colored stones that had come in with the last boat shipments, until they were as shiny as they were smooth. He could not help but hold them in his palm for a moment when he was done, fold his hand around them, and squeeze—each one seemed like such a