Black magic

The little notebook was powerful. Literally.

Her grandmother had long recounted tales of the magical item, often dotingly gesturing to its pride of place on the mantel piece. The girl had grown up gazing in wonder at the box that was stationed there, for her grandmother kept the book delicately wrapped in soft tissue and nuzzled within an ornately patterned hat box, the very one that had once contained her bridal bonnet.

But the box was all the girl had ever seen. For as many tales as her grandmother had woven about the magical notebook, the girl had never seen it with her own eyes. A few times when growing up the girl had tried pushing a dining chair to the mantel and stealthily trying to sneak a quick glimpse under the lid. She had even stationed her younger brother at the door to act as a lookout. More than anything this was just to keep him involved in her quest, because the boy wobbled about like the excitable toddler he was. He was about as useful a lookout as a blind and deaf dormouse. But the girl adored him more than anything, which is why she never minded that her grandmother always inevitably arrived without forewarning from her sibling.

So, until this moment, the girl had only imagined what the notebook had looked like. Her grandmother had only ever described the detail of the book’s magic. She remembered the first time it was revealed:

“Every time you draw something in the notebook, the book will bring it to life”, her grandmother had told her with a mysterious twinkle in her eye, the kind that only grandparents can seem to muster. The girl had sat cross legged on the carpet gazing up at the matriarchal figure, completely enraptured by the story.

“It’s true”, her grandmother had continued, “When I was not long married, I yearned to go on a trip somewhere exotic. I had never left this city and I dreamt of wide tropical palms and the hum of the wilderness, so I opened the blank pages of the notebook and just started drawing. I sketched out a vision of that trip, and not less than 3 weeks later, your grandfather had surprised me with tickets to Antigua.”

“Wow!”, exclaimed the girl, starry eyed.

“But that was not the only time my drawings came true….”, the grandmother replied with an imminence of reminiscence.

Over the years, the girl learnt about her grandmother’s tales, such as the time she drew herself passing her final exams; the time she imagined her dream house with the blooming rose bushes and sweet apple trees; or the time she coveted a new dress for her son’s wedding. They all came true, but her grandmother had always preached that the book wasn’t to be used for frivolous desires. Real magic should never be taken for granted or abused.

Now, on the girl’s 15th birthday, her grandmother gently placed the fabled book in her hands for the first time.

“Emmy”, her grandmother spoke her name softly, “It is time that the book found a new home. I have lived a very fortunate life and now I hope it will help you with your most important desires. But you must promise me that you must never rely on it, you can only rely on your hard work.”

“I will, I promise!”, Emmy replied, giddy with excitement and beaming with gratitude.

She ran her fingers over the cover. It was plainer than she expected. Just a simple, buttery black leather surface, embossed with her grandmother’s initials in gold: E.J. The same initials as her own. She wasn’t exactly sure what she had predicted, perhaps ornate embroidery or rich velvet. But now, seeing and holding the beautiful minimalism within her own hands, it felt right. Understated elegance to match the magnitude of its responsibility.

Emmy couldn’t sleep that night. The notebook seemed to be calling out to her from her cupboard where she had tucked it away safely. She tossed and turned until she finally gave into the urge and retrieved the item. She sat on her bed, thumbing over some of the drawings her grandmother had made at the start of the book. She desperately wanted to try one small drawing, just to see if it worked. After wrestling with her conscience for a while, she finally gave in. She figured this would be a one off. Emmy took out some coloured pens and pencils and started to draw a stack of blueberry pancakes, her favourite breakfast. After she had finished, she replaced the book at the back of her cupboard and at last drifted off to sleep, salivating over the meal that awaited her.

When Emmy woke the next morning and came downstairs however, her father was making scrambled eggs in the kitchen.

“Morning sweetheart!”, her father chimed cheerily, “would you like some eggs and bacon before school?”

“Aren’t…aren’t we having pancakes today?”, replied Emmy as she sat down next to her brother, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice.

“Goodness no, you know I find them too sweet in the morning. Here, eat up.” He grinned has he shovelled yellow onto her plate.

The rest of the day passed with dejection. Maybe the book didn’t work at all? No, surely her grandmother wouldn’t lie to her like that. Days passed, and still there were no pancakes for breakfast. By the time Friday came around, she decided to buy some pancake mix on the way home from school and make them for dinner to console herself.

“It’s fine,” Emmy thought to herself, “she did warn me not to use it for frivolous desires”.

Emmy didn’t touch the book again for almost a whole year, even though she really, really wanted to. She tucked it away in a shoe box and placed it at the very back of her closet, trying to conceal the temptation.

But then one day changed everything.

“It’s your brother…”, her mother called her at school and told her to come home, “there…there’s been an accident”.

Emmy barely remembers racing back to the house, heart pounding, feeling as though her stomach had been wrenched through her mouth. She sat like stone as she heard how he had been hit by a truck whilst cycling to school that morning, and how he was due to be taken in for spinal surgery that afternoon.

The next few weeks elapsed in a tense blur of squeaky floors, watery coffee and starchy coats as Emmy’s brother recovered on the wards. His leg and hip had broken in multiple places, as well as a fracture to his spine, which had been the main cause of concern and an instigator of many anxious conversations.

“Your son is recovering well”, the consultant started, after leading Emmy and her parents into her office and closing the door. She continued, “He’s young and fit, and I believe that with regular and intense physical therapy, walking without aid is very much possible. But I’m afraid the next stage requires a different kind of difficult conversation.” The consultant paused and took in a breath, “Up until now your son’s medical care has been covered under your insurance, but the nature of his recovery going forward will require additional funding.”

The statement hung heavy in the air for a second.

“How much money will it take to get my son walking again?”, Emmy’s mother asked resolutely.

“For the ongoing months of physical therapy and use of the facilities…my team estimates in the region of $20,000”.

Emmy felt nauseous. She knew her parents had already scraped through most of their savings. Her father’s carpeting business had been struggling in recent years, and her mother had been fired from her office job for spending too much time at the hospital.

“Fine by me. I deserve better than to be treated like that”, her mother had stated with an almost worrying sense of composure on the day she was let go.

It was this attitude that Emmy saw in her mother now. She might not worry, but Emmy did. When she was first told about the accident, the first thing Emmy did was run upstairs and document her prayers into the little black notebook, drawing a picture of her brother walking defiantly back into their home, upright and proud. But as the weeks passed and her brother’s recovery grew in complexity and uncertainty, she started to abandon belief in the book’s powers.

She would give the notebook one last chance. After they arrived home from the consultant’s office, Emmy raced upstairs and begun drawing. $20,000 was what they needed, so she painstakingly started drawing out individual $20 bills. All night long it took her, counting and drawing and counting and drawing, and as the sun came up, she finally finished the thousandth. Flipping back through the pages of tiny monetary copies, she wished with all her heart for it to manifest itself, but as she stared down at her copious sketchings, all she could feel was emptiness, void of the bright hope she was desperately searching for. Emmy broke down into heaving sobs. She slammed the book against her bedframe, again and again. Anger and frustration pouring out of her being. Finally she catapulted it across the room where it landed with a thud under the window.

“No.” she thought to herself. “I’m not going to rely on a stupid notebook. Magic doesn’t exist.” She decided to grow up and take her grandmother’s other worldly advice: work hard.

She started fundraising at school. She put up posters and made videos and eventually organised a charity soccer tournament with her brother’s middle-school soccer team, playing against both older and younger generations. One of the people who heard about the competition was Phil Juniper, a local middle-aged mechanic, whom many considered worthy of resident celebrity status because of the connection to his acclaimed actress cousin, Audrey Juniper.

The weekend of the tournament rolled around, and Phil Juniper happened to mention it to his cousin on a phone call, as he had decided to take part. Phil used to be a bit of a soccer legend when he was younger, and this was his chance to revel in the glory of nostalgia. Audrey was impressed, namely because she thought Phil wasn’t fit enough run to the end of his drive, let alone run for a whole match. In fact, she was so touched by his apparent altruism, that she decided to come and watch.

This sent the media into a frenzy.

The news channels arrived and everyone with a phone or camera had it pointed in her direction. The coverage of the event was enormous. Social networks couldn’t get enough of it. The media adored it: Audrey Saves Sick Child.

And she did. Because of Audrey’s presence, the event raised $19,980 exactly. Emmy couldn’t quite believe it. They’d done it. She’d done it. Her brother would be cared for. She cried and howled with happiness. Who needed magic? her grandmother was right; you can only rely on hard work.

When she got home from the tournament, she decided to open the notebook once more. She’d heatedly thrown it back into the shoe box weeks ago after pounding it about the room. Now, with her anger subsided and riding the high of relief, she was able to open it with a calmer mind and review the damage. She felt tremendously guilty for scarring the leather cover, her grandmother had cherished it after all, but whilst flipping through the drawings she found further destruction that disturbed her even more. On one of the pages of dollar bill drawings she’d managed to rip a corner off. She had to count and count again to check, but she was sure. One $20 bill was missing.