Free M Is for Magic by Neil Gaiman Page A

do it,” said Dearly eventually. “But they might.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe ones in there.” The fair boy pointed up the slope to the tumbledown farmhouse with the jagged, broken windows, silhouetted against the dawn. The gray light had not changed it.
    The Runt shivered. “There’s people in there?” he said. “I thought you said it was empty.”
    â€œIt ain’t empty,” said Dearly. “I said nobody lives there. Different things.” He looked up at the sky. “I got to go now,” he added. He squeezed the Runt’s hand. And then he just wasn’t there any longer.
    The Runt stood in the little graveyard all on his own, listening to the birdsong on the morning air. Then he made his way up the hill. It was harder by himself.
    He picked up his schoolbag from the place he had left it. He ate his last Milky Way and stared at thetumbledown building. The empty windows of the farmhouse were like eyes, watching him.
    It was darker inside there. Darker than anything.
    He pushed his way through the weed-choked yard. The door to the farmhouse was mostly crumbled away. He stopped at the doorway, hesitating, wondering if this was wise. He could smell damp, and rot, and something else underneath. He thought he heard something move, deep in the house, in the cellar, maybe, or the attic. A shuffle, maybe. Or a hop. It was hard to tell.
    Eventually, he went inside.
    Â 
    Nobody said anything. October filled his wooden mug with apple cider when he was done, and drained it, and filled it again.
    â€œIt was a story,” said December. “I’ll say that for it.” He rubbed his pale blue eyes with a fist. The fire was almost out.
    â€œWhat happened next?” asked June nervously. “After he went into the house?”
    May, sitting next to her, put her hand on June’s arm. “Better not to think about it,” she said.
    â€œAnyone else want a turn?” asked August. Therewas silence. “Then I think we’re done.”
    â€œThat needs to be an official motion,” pointed out February.
    â€œAll in favor?” said October. There was a chorus of “ayes.” “All against?” Silence. “Then I declare this meeting adjourned.”
    They got up from the fireside, stretching and yawning, and walked away into the wood, in ones and twos and threes, until only October and his neighbor remained.
    â€œYour turn in the chair next time,” said October.
    â€œI know,” said November. He was pale and thin lipped. He helped October out of the wooden chair. “I like your stories. Mine are always too dark.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” said October. “It’s just that your nights are longer. And you aren’t as warm.”
    â€œPut it like that,” said November, “and I feel better. I suppose we can’t help who we are.”
    â€œThat’s the spirit,” said his brother. And they touched hands as they walked away from the fire’s orange embers, taking their stories with them back into the dark.
    For Ray Bradbury

Chivalry
    M RS . W HITAKER FOUND THE Holy Grail; it was under a fur coat.
    Every Thursday afternoon Mrs. Whitaker walked down to the post office to collect her pension, even though her legs were no longer what they were, and on the way back home she would stop in at the Oxfam Shop and buy herself a little something.
    The Oxfam Shop sold old clothes, knickknacks, oddments, bits and bobs, and large quantities of old paperbacks, all of them donations: secondhand flotsam, often the house clearances of the dead. All the profits went to charity.
    The shop was staffed by volunteers. The volunteer on duty this afternoon was Marie, seventeen, slightly overweight, and dressed in a baggy mauve jumper which looked like she had bought it from the shop.
    Marie sat by the till with a copy of ModernWoman magazine, filling out a “Reveal Your Hidden Personality”