2

INTO THE HALL

Wizard’s Hall was a solidly built place of jagged stone towers and long arching windows. High gray stone walls curved around it, set with ironwork gates. There was not a tree or plant growing within the boundaries of those walls; it was as if magic had shattered the natural world.

Henry shivered when he looked through the gates and saw how barren the yard was, for he had been expecting much green. But he knew he could not fight his fate. So he walked steadily till he reached the main gate. There the iron was twisted into intricate symbols of power, laid out in a grid that looked like a quilt or like a beast—depending upon which eye he squinted with. It made his stomach queasy just looking.

Taking a deep breath, Henry knocked upon the gate and called out, “Hallooo?”

The gate made a rude sound, remarkably like a spit kazoo, and a small door just Henry’s size opened in it.

Henry let out the breath he’d been holding. Red-faced, he trudged in.

Suddenly he found himself not in the barren yard nor yet in a hallway, but in a wood-paneled room hung with gray-blue tapestries fraying a bit at the sides. A large table, littered with parchment, stood in the center of the room. Some pieces of parchment were rolled up tightly with scarlet ribands, some were creased and folded, some were scrunched and discarded, some were held flat by dark inkwells or brass doorknobs or apple cores.

Behind the table sat an old man with skin the color of the parchment, eyes like blue marbles, and a white halo of hair.

“Good evening,” the old man said gently.

As it was not evening at all but midday, and sunlight streamed in through the many-paned windows, quilting the floor with light, Henry was stuck for an answer.

“Or good morning,” the old man added. “Whichever. I am Register Oakbend. Glad to meet you at last.”

“At last?” Henry said. “But nobody knew I was coming. Not even me. Till yesterday.”

The old man did not reply to this but merely held out his hand.

Only then did Henry realize that the wizard was quite blind, for his marble-blue eyes stared straight ahead and his hand was reaching slightly to the left of the table, though Henry was slightly to the right.

“Actually, sir,” Henry said, gathering his courage, “it’s coming on to noon.”

Register Oakbend turned at Henry’s voice so that now he was facing Henry directly, and lowered his hand. “I said whichever,” he answered peevishly. “And that includes noon, young man. What did you say your name was?”

“Henry,” said Henry, “though I didn’t actually say it—yet.”

“Said it now,” said Register Oakbend. “The Book says Better now than not. But isn’t Henry a silly name? H-E-N-R-Y, don’t you know. Or H-E-N-R-I-E. Nothing to it. Simply a series of sounds without meaning. HEN-ER-REE. Now Couchwillow, there’s a good one. Or Stickybun. Or Daffy-down-dilly, though that’s really for a girl. How about Broadleaf? Do you like it? Does it fit?”

“Please, sir,” said Henry in a quiet little voice, “my name is Henry.”

“Listen carefully, boy. Words mean something, not just sounds thrown down willy-nilly. Willy-nilly—that’s not a bad one. But I didn’t ask what your name is. We haven’t decided that yet. And you’re going to need a good one. I asked what your name was.” He cocked his head to one side.

“But, sir, my name has always been Henry. Always will be. My dear ma gave it to me.” Henry’s voice quavered a little bit at the mention of her.

“Despite popular opinion,” Register Oakbend said, “mothers do not always know best. Especially about names. That is why children get called so many other things by their friends. I, for example, was called Niddy-Noddy by my companions, though my name at the time was Ned.” He smiled, remembering.

“But my dear ma—” Henry began.

“Prickly sort of fellow, isn’t he,” murmured Register Oakbend. “But just what we desperately need.”

Henry thought the old man was talking to himself until he heard an answering sound.

“Squark!” It came from a little white animal in a cage that was almost obscured by the mounds of parchment. Henry caught just a glimpse of it.

“Absolutely,” replied Register Oakbend, nodding his head vigorously. “Right idea. That’s the ticket.”

“Squark?” Henry asked.

“Your name,” the old man said. “Your name for is; for now; for Wizard’s Hall.”

“Squark,” Henry repeated dismally, thinking for a moment about running away. Only for a moment. He was, after all, a good boy. And he had promised he would try. “Squark.”

“Means Thornmallow: prickly on the outside, squishy within. Though I’ll have to take that squishy on faith. But Dr. Mo is always right.”

“Thornmallow,” Henry whispered to himself, trying it out. Oddly he felt relieved. Thornmallow was certainly a great deal better than Squark for a name. And it was only his name for is, for now, for Wizard’s Hall. When he went home for holidays, he could still be Henry to his dear ma. Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried to feel like Thornmallow the Wizard. He only felt like Henry, thin as a reed with a nose that was often smudgy. Suddenly he remembered something and opened his eyes.

“Who is Dr. Mo?” he asked.

But Register Oakbend, cage, desk, and all had unaccountably disappeared.

Henry—now Thornmallow—croggled, swallowed hard, and looked around. He was no longer inside the Hall but outside it, this time in the treeless, shrubless, flowerless yard, standing on hard cobbles. Not sure what it all meant, he walked up to the front door. It, like the gate, was covered with a grid, but this grid looked entirely like a quilt and not at all like a beast. That made him feel a bit better. He knocked on it.

The door made a sighing noise and opened. Thornmallow walked in.

He was quite surprised that now it was cozy and snug inside, not unlike a larger version of his cottage. Unaccountably, he felt at home. Small gold-framed portraits of wizards hung along one wall, each of them looking old and wise. Beneath each frame was a name.

“Magister Greybane,” he read silently. “Magister Bledwort. Magister Hyssop. Magister Briar Rose.” Something about the last wizard reminded Henry of his dear ma. Perhaps it was because she was the only one smiling. He said her name aloud: “Magister Briar Rose.”

The picture winked at him.

“I must be tired,” Henry told himself and suddenly recalled he’d been walking all night. But when the picture winked a second time, mouthing his name, he felt his knees give way, and he sat down quite suddenly on the polished floor.

“Now, now, none of that, child,” came a small voice from the picture. “It won’t do. You are the last, and what we desperately need, and therefore most important to us. Be strong and stand. You must try, dear child. You must try.”

The voice was remarkably like his dear ma’s, only older. Henry stood at once, not even bothering to wonder what being the last meant or how desperate they were at Wizard’s Hall.

Addressing the picture, he said, “Pardon me, Madame Magister, but my name is Hen—er—Thornmallow. I’m not quite sure what’s happening, but I’ve come to try and be a wizard.”

“Well, of course you have, Thornmallow,” the picture answered. “Otherwise Door wouldn’t have let you in, and Dr. Mo wouldn’t have given you a name. You’d still be outside and called Hen-er. Now you are inside and called Thornmallow. Hmmmmmm, Thornmallow. Prickly on the outside, squishy within. I’ll have to take that prickly on faith. But prickly is just what we need. Let’s get you settled, shall we? And wipe that smudge off your nose.”

Suddenly a small, compact woman in a musty, wine-colored robe with something that could have been egg stains on the front, stood by his side. The picture frame was empty. She plucked a handkerchief from the air and scrubbed at his face with it. Then, apparently satisfied, she guided him with two fingers on his elbow into a small room immediately to the right.

“This will be yours,” she said. “See?” She made a quick gesture with her hand, and the handkerchief disappeared. At the same time, a portrait of his dear ma with her butter churn appeared on a small wooden stand. His clothes, clean-smelling and ironed, winkled out of his pack and hung themselves on pegs by the door. A little quilt covered with sunbursts tucked itself tidily over the bed.

“Do you like it?” asked Magister Briar Rose.

Thornmallow picked up the picture from the stand and collapsed onto the bed. He was about to thank Magister Briar Rose when he saw that in the picture his dear ma seemed quite sad.

Bursting into sobs, Thornmallow put his face into his hands and was quite a long time at it. When he was quiet at last, he looked up, but the wizard was gone.

“All this appearing and disappearing,” Thornmallow told himself between sniffles, wishing the handkerchief hadn’t vanished as well, “can be awfully hard on a body.” At his words a handkerchief dropped out of the air, landing beside him on the bed.

NOW BLOW, in little flaming letters, flashed above the handkerchief.

He blew until his nose was quite clear. Then he lay down on the bed with the picture of his dear ma pressed next to his heart. He was asleep at once.