Chapter 2 - The Raccoon Wasn't a Boy

“Trap?” the lad repeated. “Oh, yes. The trap. It’s a pity that you had to resort to subterfuge due to my own skittishness when I was a raccoon.”

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Marjorie’s mother had moved the raccoon-basket from the chair to the dining table. She eyed it, arms crossed over her chest, the twitch of her neck betraying impatience.

Twelve-year-old Adam had ventured from his bedroom, drawn by a young boy’s desire to be part of the excitement. He leaned nearer to the basket, squinting in an attempt to see through the strands of wicker. His pale hand drifted towards the basket’s latch, as if he was impatient to lift it and see the raccoon, a creature not native to Scotland and which they had only seen in illustrations before.

“He might be quiet now, but he’s angry,” Marjorie told Adam. “Don’t you think about opening the basket. Imagine that he’s sitting on his haunches, ready to lunge at the first person he sees.”

Adam wrinkled his nose. “A raccoon? There are no raccoons in Scotland!”

“That’s not strictly true. There might be a few around here kept as pets,” Papa said distractedly. “They’d have been brought in by eccentric travelers.”

“Eccentric travelers or evil witches,” Mama spat, turning to putter about the kitchen in a habitual frenzy. “Perhaps the curse was cast by an American witch who didn’t think foxes or badgers creative enough. We’ve only one way to find out.”

“Nina,” said Papa, and the frantic woman slowed her pace.

“Yes, Johann?” she asked, with a sigh.

Papa drew himself up to his full height. The dreamer of a man who sung German folk songs while brewing potions had vanished. In his place stood the character that townsfolk called Bamoy, blue eyes steely with concentration and muscles tense with resolve. 

“Are you sure you wish to be a part of this?” he asked his wife, words laced with concern. Marjorie was not surprised; if it were up to him, he would complete all of his magical affairs alone, keeping those he loved out of danger.

“Dear,” was Mama’s gentle reply, “I’ve seen worse things than this in the years that we’ve been together. I’m not afraid of a boy trapped in the form of a raccoon.” She looked at her husband with eyes that soothed but did not relent. “I am a mother, and I know that isn’t some eccentric traveler’s pet raccoon. It is a boy, and I cannot leave a child alone after something so traumatic. However, Margo and Adam should go upstairs.”

“What? No!” protested Marjorie. “I caught him; I want to see him be changed back into a boy!”

“Marjorie Gretel,” Mama said with feeling, “you know my rules about your presence during the practice of magic—”

“Nina, my heart,” Papa interrupted her, “do you remember the conversation we had a week ago? Margo should be allowed to see some magic. Not all of it, but some.”

Mama stared at him with dismay but could not seem to think of adequate words to argue. It was Adam who broke the silence; the anger in his not-yet-broken voice made Marjorie flinch.

“Marjorie can stay?” he demanded of his father. “Well then, why can’t I? I’m a member of the family, too!”

“Marjorie is fifteen,” said Papa. “Knowing you, Adam, you’ll want to poke fun at the boy—before and after he’s been changed back. The day you learn not to cause trouble, you can sit with Margo; until then, you go upstairs.”

Adam’s face contorted with anger; then his scowl faded in a demonstration of defeat. He’d long ceased trying to win arguments when this man spoke as Bamoy. As a father, Johann Brahms tended to be indulgent; as a wizard by profession, he would never relent. Adam could throw himself on the ground and scream, but Bamoy would simply drag him up the stairs. 

With a resentful look at his mother, Adam stormed up the stairs to his attic bedroom. Marjorie cringed when she heard him mutter a curse word in German. She knew that her parents also heard it, but Mama seemed too shocked to run after her son with a wooden spoon. As for Papa, he was so fixated on the basket that, if he heard his son’s foul language, he feigned deafness to it.

Papa drew in a breath, approaching the table with hands that were relaxed rather than tense. 

Good magic reacts when one is gentle, he’d told Marjorie once. Show her fear or anger, and she will be more difficult to woo than a doe in the forest.

He mumbled something under his breath in a tongue that was neither English nor German. 

There is no name for the language of magic, he told Marjorie when she asked him. How can one contain something so fleeting in the confines of a word, of a name?

“We are your friends,” he said to the frightened boy, who had stopped thrashing and seemed to be huddled with fear. “Trust us, and you will be returned to your true form. My name is Bamoy, and you are in our home. After you’ve been changed back, you will be given food and a place to sleep while we locate your family.” He paused. “I am going to open the basket. I hope that you will not try and attack me; I cannot help you while trying to pry you off of my hand.”

Mama swallowed, glancing uneasily at the basket. Marjorie took a step back in spite of herself. She gripped the back of an old chintz armchair, feeling that she might swoon from the anticipation of seeing magic before her very eyes. She would tell Adam all about it, when he decided to talk to her again. When angry, he was capable of holding grudges for weeks.

Papa glanced at his wife, who offered a smile of encouragement. Love above all things. She might be none too pleased about his decision to let Marjorie linger, but it would not cause her to withhold support.

Reassured by this sign of grace, he returned his attention to the basket and undid the latch.

He said to the poor soul inside, “I’m going to lift the lid now. Don’t be startled.” 

Pausing, he waited, but there was no response. Bracing himself, Papa lifted the lid.

Backing away, Mama motioned for Marjorie to remain where she stood. The seconds that ensued were loaded with tension, as all three of them expected something feral to leap out. No such thing happened. The raccoon in the basket had been enraged as Marjorie carried it home. Now that it was in the house, it seemed to take on a different character.

Perhaps it sensed Papa’s presence and knew that the man was honest in offering aid.

Marjorie wondered if Papa would have to reach into the basket and handle the creature. The wary expression on his face told her that the thought had also crossed his mind. He therefore breathed a sigh of relief when the raccoon began to move.

The basket began to wobble, and two paws grabbed hold of the edge. A white-faced raccoon poked out its head, features so foreign to the forest in which it had been found. Two dark spots shadowed its eyes, reminding her of a pair of spectacles. Its long tail, striped with brown and black, swished with caution. Marjorie stared, transfixed, at her first raccoon sighting, and then needed to remind herself of the truth.

This isn’t a raccoon. It is a little boy. 

He did not behave as she imagined a raccoon would. Such a creature would not look about the room with intelligent curiosity. She imagined that a true raccoon would have made a run for it. The bizarre creature swiveled his head to glance at the timepiece on the mantel, catching Marjorie off-guard. It didn’t matter that she had been born in a home where unusual things happened; she’d never expected to see a raccoon check for the time.

Mama and Papa exchanged looks of similar bemusement. A relieved laugh escaped Mama’s throat, the sound catching the raccoon-boy’s attention immediately. He looked at her, tilting his head as if assessing whether she could be trusted.

Marjorie remained silent, not wishing for those beady eyes to turn to her yet.

“I’ll make it quick,” said Papa, “and thank you for being calm.”

The raccoon—nodded. He nodded and crawled out of the basket onto the table, standing on his hind legs as he looked up at Papa. His eyes were wide with the impatience of a child that had been promised a treat.

Because he is a child, Marjorie reminded herself, and she wondered with a pang what the poor thing must have gone through, what it must have done to have been thusly cursed.

Papa raised his hands and held them over the head of the raccoon—of the boy—with confidence, as if he had done such things a hundred times before. He mumbled something in that idiom Marjorie did not understand. She knew it wasn’t Latin, for she’d read a few books in Latin and the words sounded nothing like that language.

The words he spoke made her think of trees rattling in the wind and sunflowers turning in search of the sun. They made her think of the heavy rain that once leaked through the roof, dripping into Adam’s room, where Papa had placed a large bucket to catch the water. During the storm, Adam had dropped an unfortunate fish inside of the bucket to see what it would do. Marjorie had rescued the thing before he could find out.

After Papa finished his incantation, a pause ensued. Marjorie blinked, having expected an explosion of light or a gust of wind to knock aside the trinkets on the shelves. She released her grip on the back of the chair and took a step nearer to the table, eyes fixated on the raccoon’s face.

The raccoon-boy looked up at the wizard, paying her no heed.

The stillness ceased when, suddenly, the creature began to shift. Tufts of fur fell to the ground as his arms became longer, claws disappearing, paws morphing into human hands. His legs began to morph next. Marjorie remembered that the boy was going to be unclothed when this was finished. She turned away at once, following an instinct of her own. If only she hadn’t been taught to practice ladylike decency; she would have liked to witness the entirety of the process.

She only knew that the transformation had finished when Papa said, “Nina, find something to cover him with. A tablecloth or sheet will do, until we can get some clothes from Adam. Boy, what is your name?” he asked the newly rescued victim. “Do you understand me?”

Marjorie was glad she had turned away, for the voice that replied was not high-pitched like the child she’d been imagining. There was youth in it, yes, but this voice seemed to be at the end of the breaking process.

The speaker was not a child, but just on the verge of manhood. 

“No, sir,” he said, “and yes, I understand you.”

“Why can’t you tell me your name?”

“Because…” Here the voice trembled, as if in fear. “Because I do not remember it.”

Papa paused, considering this, before he spoke next. “Can you tell me where you are from?”

“No, sir,” said the boy. “I remember nothing except for the mouse that I ate for breakfast, before I was trapped.”

“Here,” cut in Mama’s voice. “Give this to him, so that he can cover himself…”

There came sounds of a sheet being arranged around the stranger’s shoulders. Only once that was done did Marjorie turn to see the former raccoon who could not remember his name.

Her assessment confirmed that he was no boy, but a lad. He was pale, startlingly so, perhaps due to all of the time his skin had spent underneath a raccoon’s fur. Something about his face caused her to squint. Why did his features appear narrower, sharper than what was normal? It reminded her of something she had seen in a storybook, but Papa did not seem to find anything about it to be concerned with.

“My name is Bamoy,” said Papa. Marjorie didn’t think he’d intended to use his wizard moniker; it seemed to have escaped from his lips in the moment of uncertainty, as if he found confidence in the sound of it. “We apologize if we frightened you with the trap, but there was no other way of rescuing you.”

“Trap?” the lad repeated—then, as if remembering, his eyes widened. Marjorie thought she saw them darken, but it was so fleeting that her father did not notice. She must have imagined it. “Oh, yes. The trap. It’s a pity that you had to resort to subterfuge due to my own skittishness when I was a raccoon.”

Mama frowned at the pale lad’s language. Subterfuge? Skittishness?

She looked at Marjorie, who nodded; she could also feel that something was not what it appeared to be. Had Papa noticed yet? Would Mama need to pull him aside and suggest that the lad was not being honest?

“Have a seat,” Papa said, “and we will share the leftovers of yesterday’s supper. Perhaps after you’ve eaten, your memory will return to you. It’s not unexpected that your mind is befuddled, after what you have been through.”

Befuddled, thought Marjorie with a silent scoff. Befuddled boys do not use words such as subterfuge.

She kept her mouth shut as the lad sat on the chair by the open window. After he had taken his seat, his roaming eyes settled on her, and she flinched, wishing that she had gone upstairs with Adam. The lad stared without blinking; it was impossible to make out what he might have been thinking as he looked at her.

She managed a small curtsy in greeting, not trusting herself to address him with words.

“Margo,” said Mama, noting her daughter’s discomfort, “go with your brother. Leave us to ask the lad some questions.”

“Yes, Mama,” said Marjorie, grateful that her mother was so attentive. With another clumsy curtsy at the nameless guest, she made her way for the stairs, ascending two steps at a time.

As she did so, she found herself ruminating. How could it be that the three of them had been fooled? It had not been a child trapped in the body of a raccoon, but a lad with very strange behaviors.

What she could not understand was who was sitting at their dining table, and why Papa hadn’t noticed his eyes turning black.

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