Phantom by Thomas Tessier Read Free Book Online Page B

couldn't get out of bed until they decided to let
you go. The Moving Pebble, which might change position only an inch
or two but was never in the exact spot where you left it. The Night
Fire, which could only be seen in a mirror in the dark when you
brushed your hair (you know it's static electricity, but if that's
all you know, you don't know anything).
    It was a small, narrow room, and Ned had
chosen it over the other available bedroom for just that reason. He
knew it would be tricky enough for him to keep track of every
square inch here; the bigger room would have defeated him. Besides,
a large room feels loose and vacant, no matter what you do with it.
This shoebox with the angled ceiling was perfect.
    A measure of confinement isn't necessarily a
bad thing either, so one window is better than two. The view from
the porthole: the backyard, an expanse of grass that Ned's father
would have to rehabilitate, future flower beds and a vegetable
garden, some lawn chairs and, farther out, a couple of stately
sugar maples and a scattering of gray birches. The land rolled
away, beyond the limits of the Covington property, to a broad
meadow that had, over the years, spoiled with thick brush and
undergrowth.
    The only thing that stood out in that
unremarkable landscape was the stark remnant of an ancient
scarecrow, a mute and forlorn reminder of other, presumably better
times, when the meadow had been tilled. Ned had inspected the
scarecrow the first day they moved into the house. Only a few
strips of rotting cloth remained, but the "body" was still firmly
fixed in the ground and the rope binding the "arms" had tightened
so much Ned's fingers found no give in the knots.
    When he wasn't outdoors Ned spent most of
his free time in his room. Aside from a few favorite programs, he
did not watch much television because it made him feel tired. And
the room, which was after all a very special place, always offered
more to occupy Ned's mind than the flat TV screen.
    For one thing, magic. Not just the Moving
Pebble, but the magic that lies beyond such phenomena. The magic of
the unseen. Ned believed in it, without knowing what it was. You
had to have a special feeling for it, be in a special place,
otherwise there was only the ordinary. The twin alarms of fear and
excitement were signals Ned had come to know well. When it was
finally definite that the Covingtons were going to leave
Washington, Ned had worried that the magic in his room would be
lost forever. But the first day in Lynnhaven, when he chose this
room, he knew that everything would be all right. Perhaps it was
nothing more than the aspect of light, or the way the air felt,
that almost tangible charge that, even at its weakest, bespoke
secret powers. Magic is an imprecise term, but if Ned couldn't say
what it was, he did know it was there.
    "Is there such a thing?" he asked Peeler one
day.
    The old man considered this for a moment,
composing his face in a serious expression. "I believe so," he said
at last. "Could be."
    "What is it?'
    "Ain't nobody knows that, no matter what
they might tell you to the otherwise." Then he held up one finger
to emphasize his next point. "But I do know this. It ain't rabbits
outta hats or card tricks or parlor stunts like that."
    "Well, if nobody knows what it is and you
can't see it, how do you know for sure that there is such a
thing?"
    "Sufferin' hellcats, you sure can fish an
unrewardin' mudhole when you've a mind to, boy. You can't see the
air neither, but you know it's there. Maybe magic's like that,
although I can't say I've had the experience of any since I don't
know how long."
    "Are there real magicians, people who can
use it and do things with it?'
    "Never seen one," Peeler scoffed. "Nor never
heard of one who wasn't just doin' tricks and stunts. Them fellers
are a dime a dozen."
    Ned was pleased. It would be great to have a
real knowledge of magic but something told him that was not
possible, and now Peeler was saying much the same thing.