Witch of the Wood

Chapter 2

  The man Wilmot was sitting at our kitchen table the next morning, cutting an apple into pieces. His feet dangled off the edge of the chair. The smell of porridge and berries wafted from the cooking pot, steam rising from the small fire lying beneath. Mother must have been outside since she wasn't upstairs or in the kitchen.
Wilmot smiled pleasantly at me.
"Ah, good morning, Merlin," he greeted me. "Grab something to eat and sit down. I would like to talk to you."
"Is Mother outside?" I asked, fussing at the hem of my sleeve.
He nodded. I heard chopping wood.
I took a bowl off the table and filled it with porridge, then sat down across from him. He handed me a spoon. I took it without a word.
"I believe you overheard our conversation last night," he said before tucking into his breakfast.
"How did you know?" I asked.
He gave me a wry grin and flicked his wrist. The curtains pulled back with a flutter to let in the morning sun. So he really could do magic too.
"A curious little girl told to go to bed when there is a strange man in the house? I would be more surprised if you had not listened," he responded between mouthfuls of porridge. "Your breakfast is getting cold, by the way."
"I can warm it up again."
"Of course you can," he replied without so much as batting an eye. "But it is a waste of magical energy."
"You just used it to move the curtains," I argued, furrowing my brow."
"Already correcting me on my own magic, I see," he chuckled.
"Because you did what you just told me not to," I shot back indignantly. "That's not fair at all."
He seemed rather pleased instead of angry at my response. The smirk never left his squashed face."
"You're smart, that is good," Wilmot remarked. "And you're not afraid to question your elders. That is even better."
"Why?" I demanded.
He reached beneath the table and pulled his satchel into his lap. From it, he withdrew a set of books tied together with twine. They were worn, but well cared for, with minimal damage. He undid the knot and held out the topmost tome to me.
"Go ahead," he urged. "Take it. You'll be seeing a lot of it."
Pulling a face, I took the book from his stubby fingers and opened it up to the first page. Several lines were written in fine delicate hand that looped and swirled. In the bottom right corner was a picture of a feather floating above a table.
"A levitation spell," Wilmot clarified. "Makes things float in the air."
"I can already do that," I shrugged.
He did not lose that grin even for a moment.
"And I can teach you how to do it better. That and many other things."
"Like what?" I asked skeptically as I thumbed the edge of the page.
He handed me the next book. A slim green thing with battered corners and a worn spine that cracked at the slightest movement.
"Herbology," he stated.
He placed another on top of it. This one was thicker, covered in smooth leather dyed a deep plum color. Yet in the blink of an eye, it seemed to shift to royal blue.
"Transformation and transfiguration," he listed.
Then he dropped the final book, a page-stuffed brick that was so worn and beaten that I thought a single touch would cause it to tear apart. The spine had probably a thousand lines marring it. Corners stuck out every which way, dog-eared and torn. How heavy was that thing? My eyes widened in astonishment.
"And all the rest," he said in a low voice, then leaned forward. "Some of it even I can't do."
"But I will?"
He nodded. He had told Mother I would become powerful. How powerful would I be? Surely not enough to do all this. But if I could, was it really because of my father? Then what was Wilmot? If I was half fae or whatever I was, then what was he? I swallowed and looked him in the eye.
"So what was your father?" I ventured to ask.
"Human, actually. But my mother was a dwarf."
My brow furrowed and I pouted in puzzlement. In all the stories my mother had told me, dwarves could never do magic. It simply did not happen. Meanwhile, the man finished the last bites of his meal.
"I'm a halfling like you, girl," he eventually let me know. "Half-human is enough to have magic."
I fell silent, for once not knowing what to say. He slid off the chair, taking his bowl and placing it in the wash. I put my hand to my own bowl and found it still hot. I risked a glance at Wilmot's back, but he said nothing. So I ate, my head buzzing with questions. Mother was chopping firewood outside the hut. Had she been doing that this whole time?
Mother never talked about a time before her life in the forest. The idea that there lived people beyond all that expanse of wood; humans, dwarves, Fair Folk and who knew what else. The stories woven by my mother had always been just that, stories. It boggled my mind. It filled me with fear and wonder. I could not even begin to imagine what that all would have looked like. I'd not a clue what a village was, let alone a kingdom. Was the difference just more people or was it more complex?
What was a church for that matter? Mother had talked as though she despised them the night before. Perhaps she simply did. Had she always hated it? Or did I change everything? So many questions and I longed for answers.
Before I knew it, my breakfast was gone and I had barely tasted a thing. My bowl then floated up into the air and fell into the washbin with a plop and a splash of bubbles. When I drew closer, I saw that the dishrag was moving all on its own, scrubbing in circles and then moving onto the next dish. When a bowl had been washed, Wilmot took it and dried it himself, then put it away.
"Why not just use magic for that too?" I tittered.
"I prefer drying over washing," he shrugged.
"So will we start lessons today?" I ventured to ask.
He turned to me with a twinkle in his eye.
"Actually I'm taking the day to set up," the half-dwarf grinned. "After all, I would hate to impose on you and your mother. Our lessons begin tomorrow. You're welcome to watch if you like."
I tilted my head to the side expectantly. He offered me no other explanation. He just went back to drying dishes.
"Merlin! Come out and help me," my mother called out.
I rushed out of the hut without a moment's hesitation. Outside, Mother stood over the chopping block, axe in one hand and wiping the perspiration from her brow with the other. Golden sweat-drenched curls clung to her cheeks and forehead, to the back of her neck. The ground was strewn with chopped wood around her. Our little mule grazed not but a ways behind her, still halfway in her lean-to. The forest floor was hard and damp, leaves scattered so thick you could scarce see the ground.
Yet Mother perspired even as I pulled my shawl tight against the moist morning chill.
"Merlin, dear, could you put this on the pile? Gently, please?" she requested.
I nodded and set about picking up the logs, taking as much as my little arms could carry.
"That's enough," Mother advised when I nearly fell trying to add, just one more to my load.
And so I went back and forth from my mother to our woodpile stacked up against the hut behind Rosemary's shack. All the while, my mother put away the axe, and tended to the mule with her feed and brushed her down. When I had finished, I was picking bits of tinder from my sleeves. Were it not for our visitor, it would have been an ordinary day.
I wanted to ask Mother about her life before the forest, yet knew not where to start. All this time and I had never thought to question why we lived here by ourselves. How many people were out there in the world? How many were like me or Wilmot?
"Merlin, now's not the time for daydreaming, dear," Mother chastised as she tucked my hair behind my ear.
I wanted to tell her I was not, but the words wouldn't come out, as if my lips were a barrier preventing them from escaping. I never could lie to Mother. So I pursed my lips and avoided her gaze.
"I thought so," she murmured, then knelt down to tie the ends of my shawl together to that I wouldn't have to keep tugging it tighter.
It was then that Wilmot emerged from the hut, drying his hands on his coat.
"I hate to add to your workload, ladies, but if I could have your help unpacking..." he trailed off.
"Unpacking what?" I demanded.
All he seemed to have were the pile of books and the clothes on his back.
The man pushed himself off the doorframe and walked past us to the edge of the clearing. Just as the morning mist began to embrace him, he stopped and reached out as if to grab something. Then he pulled back to reveal a small, stocky pony from nothing, carrying what had to have been an immense weight.
All I could do was blink in astonishment. Then I ran out to man and pony to touch the beast's dusty brown hide. Sure enough, it was real. There was warmth, a steady heartbeat, the rise and fall of its chest. When I brushed the shaggy bangs out of its face, big dark eyes stared back at me. A splotch of white marked its forehead. The pony's nostrils flared as it sniffed my hair.
"How did you do that?" I inquired, eyes wide.
"A bit of illusion magic, of course," he grinned with pride.
In his knobby hands was a large black velvet cloth. I stretched my hand out to touch it. It was dry as a bone. The smell of heather and sweet grass clung to its folds, perhaps for the pony's benefit. Wilmot then neatly folded the cloth and placed it in my arms. I could tell if its warmth was from the pony or a spell.
As Mother approached to start unloading the pony, Wilmot wandered over to a clear space not far from out hut. He examined the area with an appraising eye, looking left and right and up. He scuffed his boot against the dark packed earth. The half-dwarf scratched his chin, muttering to himself. Mother was not even reacting to his behavior. She only continued taking his luggage.
Wilmot pulled what looked like a twisted, gnarled branch out from his coat. For a moment, he caught my eye and winked. He tapped the branch against the ground, then waved it in the air. Nothing happened and I waited. After all, the strange man had not failed to surprise me yet.
Slowly but surely, roots peeked out from the dirt in a wide circle. They rose up, grew and widened, thick and strong. My jaw dropped as the roots became trees that drew together so tight that you couldn't slip a sewing needle between them. They extended until they curved and intertwined. From there, branches sprouted bright green leaves, forming a massive treetop. Back at the bottom, the structure split, creating a space big enough for an adult (at least a human one) to enter. Another, much smaller gap appeared on either side. It almost looked like half of a craggy face. My eyes widened at the realization that it was hollow.
"Merlin," Wilmot spoke up, "my bag, please."
I handed it to him. He set it upon the ground and pulled it open. I attempted to peek inside, curious as to what wonders lay within. The strange dwarf man shooed me away, however,
"Patience," he smirked almost teasingly.
Then he reached into the bag and pulled out a wooden stool. Surely he had only managed to fit it in there with magic. The stool creaked as he stepped onto it and brushed off his coat, then spread his arms out wide, wand in hand. His thin lips pressed together and then he began to hum.
Wilmot's voice was deep and warm like sunlight. Steady and coaxing, it stirred something within me. I felt suddenly light, as if at any moment I would start floating. Something akin to excitement fluttered in my stomach and somehow the leaves seemed a brighter shade of green, the fog dissipating. I felt strange, yet not unpleasant.
As if in response to his slow melodic tune, the contents of his pack began to rise up into the air, teetering in time to the dwarf man's rhythm. One by one; books, tables, chairs, all manner of things that should not have been able to fit in that bag, found their way into the new wooden abode as Wilmot waved his wand about. I watched intently, hypnotized by the dance of furniture and the humming that made my tiny body tingle.
Unable to fight the grin finding its way to my face or the relentless giggles bubbling from my lips, I raced inside. Already the abode was starting to look like a proper home. A big frayed rug unrolled itself upon the dirt floor as creaking wooden chairs and a table dropped onto it. Then in came a large chest I could not have lifted if I had tried and a number of shelves. Each landed ever so delicately in an orderly fashion. As I ducked under the shadow of a bed drifting above my head, I now noticed the stone stairs leading up to the next floor.
Following the bed upstairs, I found myself in an attic-like area. A few round windows gave way to the downcast sky outside. The bed took its place beneath one of them so that the window rested above the headboard. A steped block of wood dropped next to the bed. Then came heavy green curtains the shade of wet moss. Then rugs, piles of books, candles yet to be lit, objects strange yet familiar that I could not quite identify. All took their places and settled in until finally that strange sensation ceased, fading like the last note of a song into still silence.
Suddenly I felt hollow, as if something had been snatched away from inside me. I sunk to the floor, not quite dizzy, but somewhat lightheaded. How did I become so exhausted?
"It seems you're quite sensitive to magic," a voice observed from behind. "Don't worry, you will eventually get used to it."
I whirled around to find Wilmot leaning back against the wall completely unaffected by what had transpired.
"This never happens when I do magic," I complained as he moved to sit on the floor in front of me, crossing his legs.
"That's because you have only done simple magic," he explained. "Now what I did was not all that complicated, but it requires more focus than simple levitation or lighting a candle."
He continued on, placing his wand between us.
"That reaction of yours was a sign of just how much potential your magic has. It awakens and stirs inside you in the presence of other magic because it is powerful, sensitive, and all yet to be mastered and used. The stronger one's magic, the stronger the pull. Like you, it is curious, tempted to see what it can do."
"So magic is alive then? Like a person?"
"In a way, yes," he confirmed. "It's difficult to describe as it comes to us all in different forms, differing ways in which we understand it. Some experience it as threads; spinning, weaving, and tangling. Others, like me, hear it as music. No spell sounds quite the same. But regardless of how we perceive it, two things are clear: it permeates the world around us and it is alive. It is far too willful not to be."
"And how will I see it?" I begged to know, leaning forward, rapt in his words.
He smiled.
"That is for you to find out. You will refine your method in time." Wilmot answered.
That displeased me. I wanted to know now. How would magic come to me?
"And the wand?" I pressed.
The half-dwarf gestured for me hold out my hand. Then he picked it up and wrapped my fingers around the base. The knobs and whorls pressed against my hand, rough and uneven, yet comforting and familiar in its imperfections. As soon as Wilmot let go, I began to lazily wave it about.
"A rite of passage you will come to in time," he assured me. "A time I look forward to."
In that moment, I knew I had gained a teacher. I knew that I would learn magic. I had it in my head that he would teach me all the things I did not yet know.
Yet no teacher is capable of such a feat, no matter how dutiful the student.