Ravenspell Book 1: Of Mice and Magic Page 3

  Ben peered up, and saw her tail hanging. “A rope!” Ben said, just as the lizard lunged at him.

  His legs seemed to explode beneath him, propelling him up like a marshmallow flipped from a spoon.

  He caught Amber’s tail and held on for dear life.

  “Feeeeed me!” the lizard whined, leaping as best he could and snapping at Ben and Amber. “Feeeeeeed me!”

  “Let go of my tail!” Amber shrieked.

  “Or what?” Ben asked. “You’ll turn me into a slug?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she shouted.

  “Ah,” Imhotep said, peering up, “what a sweet delicacy dangles before my eyes! Tastier than the dates at the Temple to Ahmen Ra!”

  He climbed up the sunning log and chomped. Ben clung to Amber’s tail, screaming and swinging like Tarzan.

  “I’m slipping!” Amber cried. Her tiny claws couldn’t hold much longer.

  “Come down,” Imhotep shouted. “I love eating American.” He jumped and nipped at Ben.

  “Amber,” Ben shouted. “Turn the lizard into a bug!”

  Amber wondered. Can I really do that? But before she could even give it much thought, Ben screamed and kicked off, smashing the lizard on the lips. He must have hit solidly, for Ben went hurtling, and he was still holding Amber by the tail. In fact, he was grasping it so hard that when he arced out of the cage, he pulled her over the top with him. They both sprawled on the lush, shag carpet.

  For the first time in her life, Amber was free, and for a moment, all of her fears were forgotten. She gazed around. The room was a wonderland for a mouse. Ben’s shoes, shirt, and pants lay by the lizard’s cage. They were spread along the floor, like a fallen giant. There was all kinds of interesting junk in the room—dragon posters on the walls, a GameBoy, karate trophies on his dresser.

  Ben seemed to have caught her mood. He stared up at the ceiling. “It’s as big as a basketball arena,” he whispered in awe.

  Then he whined and clutched his chest. “I . . . my heart must be beating four hundred times a minute. I’m having a heart attack!”

  “That’s just normal,” Amber said.

  There was a scraping noise on the glass wall of the cage. Amber peered toward it. Imhotep was up on his back feet, his front claws gouging the glass as he tried to climb out. “Come back,” he called. “I will not eat anyone. It was just a little joke, my American friends! A tasteless joke.”

  Ben crouched on his back feet, gasping for breath and swaying. “Okay,” he told Amber. “Turn me back into a human.”

  Amber peered at him, unblinking. He was trying to stand. But he hadn’t taken into account the changes that had occurred. He couldn’t do much more than crouch. He wiggled the toes on his huge feet. Amber’s whiskers twitched, and she sniffed a little. “I don’t know how.”

  “But you’re a wizard, right?” Ben demanded.

  “No,” Amber said. “I guess, maybe. I mean, uh, I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, trying to sound calm and reasonable, and failing miserably. “Just wish me human again.”

  Amber squeaked angrily. “Why? Why should I do anything for you? One minute you’re petting me like I’m your best friend and the next, I’m lizard bait.”

  “It wasn’t my fault! Dad told me to!”

  “Do you always feed your friends to lizards when your dad tells you?”

  “It’s not my fault, you little bean-sized rat,” Ben growled. “Now, you made me into a mouse, and you’re going to make me human again!” Ben balled his paws into fists and stalked toward Amber.

  Amber had taken all she could from him. “You . . . stinkbug,” she screamed. She leaped on him, knocking him backward to the floor. “You tried to kill me! You maggoty cousin of a mealworm!” She yanked out one of Ben’s perfect whiskers.

  “Ow,” Ben cried.

  Amber climbed on Ben and began pulling his ears, trying to rip them off. She was beside herself with rage. She bit Ben’s nose.

  “Knock it off,” Ben yelled. He gave Amber a karate kick to the belly. It sent her hurtling backward five inches into the air, then tumbling over the rug. Amber landed with a thud. He’d kicked her so hard that tears sprang up in her eyes. She trembled badly.

  “You fight like a sissy,” Ben scolded.

  “I fight like a mouse. There’s a difference.”

  “Wish me back into a human,” Ben shouted.

  But she wanted to punish him. Besides, she wasn’t sure she could even do it. Old Barley Beard had always insisted that she had magical powers. But as she looked at Ben, she didn’t feel powerful. In fact, she was terrified. She was still shaking in fear of the lizard.

  And if I turn him back into a human, she realized, I’ll be all alone.

  “I’m glad you’re a mouse,” she said angrily. “And if I have my way, you’ll stay one forever.”

  Ben looked into her eyes and must have sensed her anger, for suddenly he backed away in terror.

  * * *

  Now, it is a strange fact that casting a spell gives off energy, just as lightning gives off electricity or a bonfire gives off heat. But when a spell goes off, it sends out a wave of magical energy—a cloud of plasma that only very powerful magicians can sense.

  So when Amber turned Ben into a mouse, she released a magical force that exploded like a nuclear bomb.

  In a swamp in Louisiana, an old bullfrog named Rufus Flycatcher was sitting atop a cypress knee at the edge of a bayou, croaking a long, complex spell that only a hearty old frog could master.

  Waves of dark water lapped against the trees. A small gator was swimming through the bayou, eyeing Rufus, but Rufus didn’t pay no never-mind. The ornery gator knew better than to try to gobble a wizard. Besides, there were a million frogs in the bayou tonight—all of them croaking up a storm.

  Just below Rufus, five young frogs, practically tadpoles, listened patiently to Rufus’s spell, a spell that would cause snapping turtles and loggerheads to flee the area, looking for prey other than young frogs to hunt. The spell was just beginning to take effect, spreading a luminous haze in the air above the swamp.

  In the midst of this demonstration, Rufus felt the shock from Amber’s spell, a force that shook him to his core. He whirled and saw the aura rising like a mushroom cloud.

  “Urp!” Rufus gulped in amazement. The luminous haze overhead faded out.

  One young frog at Rufus’s knee, who was so much a tadpole that he hadn’t even lost his tail yet, croaked, “What was that, Magi Flycatcher?”

  “That,” said Rufus, “was a powerful spell.” He dared not guess what kind of spell had been cast, but he got a sinking feeling in his gut, an odd rumble, as if he’d eaten a big old wolf spider that just wouldn’t stop wiggling. “Been more than a coon’s age since I’ve seen an aura like that. A powerful mage is out there, for sure!”

  “A light mage or dark?” the tadpole asked.

  Rufus bit his lower lip in worry. The mage-storm had come from the far west, he felt sure. Dark sorcerers ruled the west. And the last time that Rufus had seen power unleashed like that, it heralded the coming of a great war where many good wizards had lost their lives.

  We’ll have to send a wizard to investigate, Rufus realized, and immediately he was lost in thought, wondering who might be able to make the journey at this time of year.

  “We can only hope for good,” Rufus croaked.

  * * *

  At the same time, in a cave near the coast, sixty miles from Ben’s house, a sorcerer was half asleep, hanging from a rock by his feet, his wings draped dramatically about his body to keep it warm. His name was Nightwing. He had a silver ring in his nose, tarnished by age, and silver studs running around the edges of enormous ears that dwarfed his small face. His fur was the lovely color of orange coals among a dying fire, and bare patches along his wings and ears were tattooed with mystic symbols.

  His heavy purple eyelids were closed as he chanted in a dream:

  Once upon a midnight dreary,

&n
bsp; While I pondered, weak and weary,

  Over many a quaint and curious

  Volume of forgotten lore,

  While I nodded, nearly napping,

  Suddenly there came a tapping—

  As of someone gently rapping,

  Rapping at my chamber door.

  As the shock from Amber’s spell rattled through the cave, Nightwing startled awake.

  His mind was groggy from his long winter’s hibernation, but he had seldom felt such immense power. Indeed, he had felt it only once, long ago, when the Cruel One first woke to his powers and began his reign of terror upon the earth. Nightwing opened his eyes.

  All around him in the cave, his minions lay in torpor, deeply asleep. They were monstrous creatures, twisted things from nightmares. Only one of them sensed that something was amiss.

  “What’s that?” Nightwing’s familiar, a tick that nestled near one ear, cried as plasma from the spell surged through the cave. In order to speak, the tick had to draw his proboscis painfully from Nightwing’s flesh.

  “’Tis a motley drama that has begun,” Nightwing said, lifting his ears, “with much of Madness, and more of Sin, and Horror the soul of the plot.”

  “How Poe-etic,” the tick, Darwin, said. “Does that mean I’ll get some fresh blood to drink? You know, you’re pretty much all tapped out.”

  Nightwing scrunched his nose in disgust. He wanted to eat the pest, and since Nightwing was an insectivore (despite persistent rumors that he was related to the great Count Dracula himself on his mother’s side), he felt tempted to gobble Darwin down. But Nightwing needed the magic power that his familiar provided just as much as Darwin needed Nightwing’s blood.

  “Ah,” Nightwing said, dropping from his perch as he took wing, heading toward the source of the power. “There will be blood for you, my lovely. There will be blood.”

  Chapter 4

  A MOTHER’S LOVE

  No love is so certain and pure as a mother’s love!

  —BARLEY BEARD

  It does kind of look like a snake, he thought groggily.

  BEN TURNED AWAY FROM AMBER in fear, sprang under his bedroom door, and waddled toward the stairs. In his short life, there had always been one certainty: though his mother lacked common sense and good personal hygiene, she’d always loved him. She’d always been there to bandage his boo-boos.

  His stubby legs couldn’t carry him down to his mom fast enough. Nothing on his body moved right. He felt like he was wearing clown shoes. It took all of his concentration just to walk, and every few paces he had to leap thirty feet down to the next stair step. His tail thumped each time he landed, until finally he whirled and yelled at it, “Quit following me. You give me the creeps!”

  Ben wheezed. He was amazed at the smells on the carpet. His powerful mouse nose picked up the strong odors of spilled grape juice and a crumb from a peanut butter sandwich he’d sneaked to his room last month.

  Amber raced nimbly beside him, hopping on her back legs and landing on her front paws. “What are you doing? Where are you going? You won’t leave me, will you?” She sounded frightened. “I’ve never been out of my cage before.”

  Ben ignored her. He felt glad that she was scared. It served her right!

  He stumbled past the Christmas tree, still petrifying in the corner, and limped beneath wads of wrapping paper as large as buses.

  By the time he reached the kitchen, a hike of at least a mile, he felt as if he’d collapse. His heart raced hundreds of beats a minute, and his mouth had begun to foam.

  He passed a line of black ants marching across the kitchen floor. As they marched, they sang:

  All us bugs up in the cupboard,

  Love to work the whole night long.

  We aren’t lazy; we aren’t crazy.

  We are bold and cruel and strong.

  Just as butterflies like sunshine,

  Just as slugs love driving rain,

  Us bugs love to sing and dance—

  Kick your mama in the pants!—

  Us bugs love to sing and dance

  Around the kitchen drain!

  Ben watched the ants caper, feeling as if he’d just taken a wrong turn into the Twilight Zone.

  He scampered onto the kitchen floor and found his feet sliding on the linoleum with each step. It was almost like being in an ice-skating rink. He passed the fridge and saw a dark alley between it and the wall. Dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds lurked in the corners.

  A cockroach careened giddily across the kitchen floor like a remote control car that’s gone berserk, barreled into Ben, and shouted, “Everyone to the pantry! Someone left the Cap’n Crunch open, and we’re having a luau!”

  Ben stared at the cockroach, dumbfounded.

  Then he ducked under the kitchen counter and peered up at his mother. There she towered, bigger than the Statue of Liberty. She was staring mournfully from a mountain of moldy dishes to the ceiling and mumbling under her breath, “Please, bless me with a maid . . . ”

  “Mom!” Ben squeaked. “Down here. Help!”

  But with the rumble of the TV in the other room—Dad was watching Pokémon—she couldn’t hear him.

  Ben studied her pant leg. She wore khaki Dockers. He wondered if he could hook his little claws into the fabric and scurry up like a cat.

  He leaped clumsily into the air, rising at least sixty feet, grabbed her knee, and started to climb. With only four fingers on each front paw, it was a truly heroic task.

  The results were astonishing.

  His mom must have felt something on her knee. She glanced down and screamed.

  She fell backward, knocking over the moldy dishes, then leaped about five feet and kicked with all her might. Ben hurtled through the air, slammed into the refrigerator, slid down, and thudded to the floor. Dishes crashed, like flying saucers shot out of the sky, and shattered on the linoleum. Huge chunks of crockery skidded everywhere, and Ben leaped out of the way as a jagged piece slid under him.

  “Help,” his mom screamed. “A mouse!”

  Ben struggled to his feet, dodged as a shattered cup went rolling past. “Mom,” he squeaked. “It’s me!” He limped toward her and squatted on the floor, peering up. White foam dribbled from his mouth, and he wiped it off with the back of one paw.

  “Help,” she screamed louder. “A rabid mouse!”

  “Mom,” Ben said, “it’s me!”

  Amber scurried to the fridge just behind Ben’s back and hid under the door.

  Ben’s dad bounded into the kitchen and grabbed a spatula from the stove. “I’ll bet it’s that mouse Ben is supposed to feed the lizard.”

  “No,” Mom shouted in a panic. “There are two of them!”

  Ben’s dad peered down at him. His eyes grew fearful.

  He studied Ben with growing alarm. “You’re right. It is a rabid mouse! Call 911 while I hold him off.” He raised the spatula protectively.

  His mom rushed out to the living room.

  “Dad,” Ben called. “It’s just me!”

  “Honey,” Ben’s dad shouted, “it’s squeaking really strangely.”

  “It’s no use,” Amber called to Ben. “You’re a mouse now. Humans can’t understand us—just like we can’t understand them.”

  Ben’s mind did a little flip. “What do you mean, you can’t understand humans?” Ben asked Amber. “I understand them just fine.”

  “Maybe that’s because you were human once.”

  Ben’s dad crouched. Suddenly, it seemed that he had heard enough of Ben’s odd squeaking. His dad cocked his arm and swung.

  Ben tried to leap away, but he was too slow. His dad whacked him with the spatula. Ben slammed into the floor. Stars whirled in his vision. He tried to climb to his feet, but he was too weak and too sick to his stomach.

  His mom thundered back into the kitchen. The floor shook as if a herd of rhinos were charging.

  “Did you call the cops?” Dad asked.

  “No,” she said, “I got a better idea.”
>
  Ben heard the electric whine of a motor.

  From under the fridge, Amber shouted in terror, “Snake! She’s got a snake!”

  Ben peered up weakly. He saw a huge gaping tunnel with a silver rim. A powerful wind raced around him. He realized that he was staring straight up into the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner!

  It does kind of look like a snake, he thought groggily.

  “Ben,” Amber yelled. “Run this way!” From the corner of his eye, Ben spotted Amber lunging around the corner into the living room. In desperation, he hurried after her, kicking with both rear feet, trying to land on his hands the way that Amber did.

  He careened into the living room and peered around. The big-screen TV squatted amid walls of garish lava lamps, each a different size and color. Overhead hovered his mom’s mirror ball. On really bad days, she’d ingest half a cup of sugar and just sit in the easy chair, watching the mirror ball whirl in circles as she listened to her My Turn on Earth CD.

  Ben spotted Amber climbing up the brass chains of his mom’s cuckoo clock.

  “Up here,” Amber shouted as she neared the top. “I see a dark hole!”

  Ben trundled to the clock, leaped as high as he could, and caught the chains. Kicking and clawing, he boosted himself up the chain by sheer willpower until he collapsed safely inside the hole.

  For a moment, he lay next to Amber, his heart pounding. He could smell the powerful odors of lacquer, glue, and wood. The clock was the size of his bedroom, except that huge gears with notched teeth lined every wall. Afraid that a gear would catch his tail, he climbed higher and perched on a slab next to the carved figure of a little cuckoo bird with blue wings, a white head, and yellow beak.

  Ben’s mother called, “Where did they go? Look under the couch.” The vacuum cleaner whirred louder as it drew close.

  “Honey,” Ben’s dad said, half in astonishment and half as a compliment. “When did you learn to use a vacuum cleaner?”

  “Last month,” she said with great pride. “I took a night class at the university.”

  They began rustling around in the living room.