A Mage's Tale

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – A Mage's Tale.

I was sitting in my chair when I heard the rumble of two pairs of feet, and a hushed whisper. In order to seem inconspicuous, I was pretending to be completely absorbed in my book, a book of my own writing. Only every now and then did I check above my crescent-shaped glasses to see what the two of them were up to. I found them busily discussing, likely to see what their best approach would be. They looked back, and I quickly looked back at the book, pushing it even closer to me. They hadn't noticed, had they now? I dearly hoped not. I was beginning to tap the book's cover impatiently, hoping they would ask soon. I had already read this, since I had written it, and I was beginning to grow bored of it. Finally, when I felt as if I couldn't handle it any longer, a curious finger tapped my knee.
    "Grandpa, could you tell us some more stories?" Rolf asked, his voice sweet, his tone kind.
    "No," said a sharp voice from the dinner table, unrelenting in her lack of mercy. Diane, Rolf and Tom's mother, was not one for arguments or discussion. Both me and the boys had been shot down before we could take flight, before we could even have a taste of freedom. They had worked so hard on asking me that they hadn't considered their mother
    "And why not, Diane? They've been very sweet all day."
    "You said it yourself already. All day. It'll get late soon, and I want them to be well-rested for Christmas. You won't argue with me, or you won't get any pancakes tomorrow morning."
    "I'm not arguing, I'm discussing," I said, perhaps too cheekily, because she shot me a look which could kill a fraction of a second later. "Politely," I added, carefully. "And if I were to give you something in exchange? They won't go to bed tomorrow morning, I'll promise that, and you can have anything you want from me. Within reason."
    "All right," she said, calmly, straightening her newspaper, "a spare wand, then."
    "A spare," I muttered, "we both know it won't be a spare."
    "I can hear you, you know."
I took one tired, over-acted look at Rolf and Tom, to which they chuckled. They knew very well what their mother was like, they were terribly clever for their age. Their father was keeping quiet, and was very smart to do so, sipping at his tea and reading a book. He gave us a glance and smiled at us, to which his wife kicked him from under the table.
    "All right, enough talk of pancakes and stories, let's actually get to it. I think the first tale would be good to start with," I said, going to the very beginning of the book. This was a book of my tales and adventures, self-written, but never published. In case I would forget, I did suppose, I couldn't remember.
    "On that day I walked to the shop, thinking it would be just another day..."

I was a rainy day, as most days were in London. It was pouring, and had begun doing so since the first half of my walk, so I hadn't thought to bring an umbrella, and I was suffering because of that. I was wet from top to toe, and looked more like a wet dog than a human at that point. Luckily, I saw something which might save me, amuse me, even. There was an Unborn walking in front of me, who had an umbrella in one hand, a newspaper in the other. Copying the umbrella would be easy, but the newspaper would take some more effort. Would I copy it now, it would fall in the rain, and my attempts to copy it twice to get a dry version would be much more noticeable. If there was one thing a wizard shouldn't be doing, it was using magic in front of an Unborn, but I felt that in these circumstances I didn't have a choice. Yes, after all, a good newspaper and dry clothes would be paramount to my ability to make a wand, and that, in turn, would be crucial to the defence of Kraftia, would something occur. In short, I simply had to use magic; it was a matter of national security.
    I copied the umbrella first, a few paces behind him, and quickly rushed forward to take it. It was a success, and I raised the umbrella above my head, being finally spared the rain's assault.
Now for the next step; the newspaper. With a tug of my wand, I pulled the newspaper down, onto the rain-covered streets. I copied the newspaper, pulling it between my armpit with a quick pull of my wand. Now to hope the man would notice. It took a few paces until he did notice, and stopped in his tracks. I walked past him, as if I didn't notice a thing.
    "Excuse me," his voice called from behind me. I turned around, and gave him a quizzical look. "I've lost my newspaper somewhere along here. Might you know where I've dropped it?"
    "Right there, I think," I said, pointing to the paper I had made him drop a few paces behind. "Is that one yours?"
    As he ducked down to reach for the soaked newspaper, I conjured another right where he had it before. Done and done. Now only to call out to him.
    "Sir! Right there, between your armpit!" I called out, and he looked to his armpit with a puzzled look on his face. He turned around, and gave me an appreciative tip of his hat.
    "Thank you. Quite the bit of weather, isn't it? Good day," he said, and walked past.
    "Good day," I said back, and would have tipped my hat, had I had one.
    What was left to me now was going back to my shop.
    I walked to the alleyway which led to it, an alleyway which was so narrow only a cat might squeeze through. Alleys like these might have been explained through other reasons, like a way to increase the price of a house, due to less trouble from the neighbours, or some extra space for both houses they might put a bicycle or the like in. But the reason was something different, that reason being that those alleyways were the gateways to Bubbles. It was nothing an Unborn could walk through, and only those who can bend Bubbles, benders, can walk through them normally. I was no bender, but I could walk through them all the same, a thing which made me wonder about myself to this day. The process was simple; if a wizard walks through the alleyway, they are Translocated into the Bubble, through space and time. In the meantime, an illusion is made and manufactured. The wizard's image walks through, to a remote part of London, until there is no-one around. Then, the image disappears, unnoticed, and the Unborn are none the wiser. I began walking through the alleyway, and the round tunnel appeared. One end showed London, the other Kraftia, the Bubble's city, London's magical counterpart. I began walking, and hoped the end would come soon. Walking through the tunnel always felt strange, like you were walking on air, but had the sense of falling at the same time.
    Finally, I made it off the end, and I could feel the Translocation squeezing me, and enlarging me again. The Bubble's Translocation was safe, but if an inexperienced wizard did it, they might find themselves shrunk, enlarged, or parts of themselves given the same treatment. Enlarged fingers or toes weren't too uncommon among the magical populace. Once I was inside Kraftia, I had to take a good deep breath before moving on. Sunlight shone from above, and blue clouds filled the skies. It was warmer, but not warm enough to dry my clothes in the span of seconds. I would have to fulfil that role myself. Drawing my wand in a circular motion, I cast a spell of warmth which embraced me. I made it go through my clothes, from my coat, to my shirt, until my pants. I then began to walk and read at the same time, going over the Unborn news first.
    THIRD CHURCHILL MINISTRY DOING WELL, the headline read. Churchill was a leader I respected deeply. Where the Conclave had failed in taking on the Purebloods, I was certain he would have done better. After all, ideologies and numbers were similar. One wanted to take out a certain part of the population, as did the other. Jews, homosexuals, gypsies, the handicapped, and Jehovah's witnesses on one hand, Abberants, (those mutated or altered by magic) the Unborn, Invaliants, and anyone who disagreed with their ideology on the other.
    YOUNG SCIENTIST DISCOVERS NEWLY FOUND PARTICLE TO POSSIBLY BE RESPONSIBLE FOR SUPERNATURAL OCCURENCES, another headline read. Oh dear, this could cause a bit of trouble. If this person had discovered magic, the consequences could be catastrophic. Because, if one reasoned rationally, that there was a force of magic which caused supernatural occurrences, which wouldn't do anything if dormant, there must be something making it non-dormant, hence, a wizard. That, in turn, could lead to the revelation of our society. If they could find out about magic, they could find out about Bubbles, and monitor them. And if we are trapped in the Bubbles, then we are doomed, or worse off by far. I hoped the Conclave could pull some strings, and knew it to be likely. Now to read the magical version of the papers. A few companies which produced papers were owned by wizard families, and as such, both versions of the paper were easily available. After all, if you can produce two things for the price of one, why wouldn't you? All that was required to switch from one to the other was a spell, a simple incantation which disabled the illusion hanging over the paper.
    "Revellio," I said, and the papers changed entirely. The stagnant pictures were exchanged with moving ones, which followed in the direction where your gaze looked. If you looked right, the picture would turn right. Whatever you had already read, and registered, would disappear, and reappear with a glance. I moved my gaze to the first headline.
    BANSHEES GAIN MASSIVE INCREASE IN TERRITORY, the headline read. The picture beneath it showed horror in its purest form. What it showed was the inside of an industrial factory, the floor, walls, and ceiling covered in blood from top to bottom. Bodies were on the ground, in contorted and mangled positions, bits of flesh and bone lying everywhere, bones sticking out of places they didn't belong, and opened cages, with no blood inside them. A magical fauna breeding facility. The amount of magical fauna had plummeted when Arthur Pendragon culled their numbers, and as a result, the Conclave encouraged breeding, but only with a license. Facilities which didn't have licenses usually used them for more nefarious purposes, to make coats, potions, or illegal substances. I hoped that whatever fate the Banshees had in store for them would be a better one, but I doubted it. Turning the page, I ended up on an article about the young scientist which I had read about earlier.
    PARTICLE DISCOVERER UNDER CONCLAVE SUPERVISION, UNLIKELY TO CAUSE TROUBLE, the headline read. Well, a relief, to be sure, but something which was to be expected as well. Conclave supervision of the Unborn was incredibly tight, but it had to be. Millions of wizards stood at the risk of being killed if our existence were to be discovered. We would likely be in the same spot as the natives of colonised nations, only with ways to fight, something which would only make it easier to subjugate or kill us. We were in a poor spot, as we had always been. Hoping to distract myself with something a bit more positive, I flipped to the next page of the newspaper.
    SHOPNAMES CONTAINING BOTH ALLITERATION AND/OR RHYMES NOT MORE LIKELY TO GAIN HIGHER PROFIT, RESEARCH FINDS, the headline read. Oh, bummer. This would upset a great deal of people, not to mention that it would warrant a great number of angry letters towards the Commercial Trade Federation, which published a paper that described a phenomenon in which shops which had rhyming or alliteration in them would receive a higher profit in exchange, due to the shop seeming more attractive to clients. As a result of this, many streets, including the one my shop was located in, had shops which contained alliteration, rhyming, or both of them. As I had wondered about and read the articles in the newspaper, I found myself very close to Abbicott Alley, the street in which my shop, and the shops of the people I knew were in. Abbicott Alley was a shopping street, mostly, with only a few residential homes. Beyond it, the road split, into the Toy District, and the Business District, where children's shops and businesses were located, respectively.
    As I arrived in Abbicott Alley, its familiarity flowed over me, like a beautiful painting you've seen a hundred times before. You could describe its every detail, from top to bottom, from left to right, but looking at it for the hundredth time was in no way as exciting as doing so for the first time. When it came to describing it, I always thought myself fairly capable, so allow me to demonstrate.
    The street itself was made of flattened cobblestones, marched and walked on for nearly a thousand years now. It was populated by small shops on both sides of the road, some shops being hundreds of years old, carried over and maintained by families which were just as old, if not older. Crystals in the streetlights showered the morning air in honey-golden light, while the simulated stars brought light to the dark cobblestones. At the beginning of the street, there was Sheffeld's shop, simply called Sheffeld's spells. Sheffeld was a childhood friend of mine, and we worked together many times in business. After all, if one had a wand, some spells to test it with would be nice. The opposite was also true, that if one bought some spells, a new wand to test them out with would certainly be pleasant. We always knew to point clients in the right direction, which ensured a high profit for the both of us.
    Just beyond Sheffeld's shop was Ms. Laterly's bakery, who brought magical fauna to life with her creations. She was wondrously good at using Creation to make the cakes, pies, and other sweets look and move exactly like the animals would.
    Beside Ms. Laterly's shop stood mine, named the Oaken Heart in reference to my wand. It had a beautiful sign which hung from a bar above the door, an oak carved in steel and painted gold. Beside my shop stood the shop of Mr. Verté, who had let me buy what was once a storage room for his paintings, and what was now a shop. I had gotten a job at a local office at first, a job which consisted of writing letters to clients to arrange appointments, apologise, and to generally introduce the company to said clients. Having saved up, I then took a look around what sort of shops were available, but found renting them a bother, and buying more expensive than I had first thought. My father wanted to help me, but wanted me to be independent and self-sufficient as well. I was at wits end until I talked with Mr. Verté, who said that I could buy his storage room from him. My shop wasn't all too large, but it did its job well. I had so many customers that I had to refuse one every now and then, simply because the workload wouldn't be bearable. But enough about me, and more about Mr. Verté. He was, and is still, a celebrated and famous artist, who prided himself on using both handwork and magic to make his paintings the most beautiful art you'll see in a while. I checked his gallery every now and then, simply as a way to uplift myself. Of course, Ms. Laterly's sweets and cakes were a way to do that as well, but I had to watch my tummy, so I alternated between the two of them healthily. 
    As I approached my shop, I noticed Sheffeld leaning against the wall of the very end of it, smoking a cigarette. He sucked in the smoke with his spot-filled cheeks, his cheekbones becoming even more defined than usual. Seeing me finally, he made his cigarette disappear, and greeted me with a smile.
    "You're here unusually early, Sheffeld. Not to mention you're standing near the wrong shop, unless you plan to give me a hand. Is something the matter?" I asked, plucking my keys out of my pocket and unlocking the door in advance, motioning for him to come inside. The bell rung as he did, and he talked as he went in.
    "I wanted to talk with you about something, if you'd like. It's business," he said, rather shyly. He was standing there with an uncertainty to himself, something which was uncharacteristic of him. Sheffeld was lean and tall, well-built, as he always had been. His red hair had been combed backwards, neatly. He had freckles around the nose and on his cheeks. He had a well-maintained beard, being at just the acceptable length past the chin. When it came to being well-maintained, Sheffeld had me beat by a mile and further. His clothes were always clean and without any folds, and his hair was always flawless, which my messy and curly hair just couldn't beat. To see him in front of me so insecurely made me suspect something was wrong.
    "Did you get into trouble?" I asked, frowning.
    "Ah, no, nothing of that sort," he said, smiling nervously. "I was hoping to buy a spell from you."
    "Which one?" I asked, having invented less spells than you could count on a hand, and all of which weren't very noteworthy.
    "The measuring spell," he said, and in one sweep I knew why he had been so nervous. He had asked this of me before, and failed. Unfortunately, he would fail again.
    "No, Sheffeld. We've talked about this, haven't we? I was very clear. I dislike being bought, which is the reason I don't make wands for celebrities or clients with large demands. I don't do any of this for the money, I do it because I enjoy doing it, and so should you."
    "But you'd get seventy-five percent of all the profits, without any of the costs. If you're worried for competition, I could make sure no wandmakers come by it. The books are illegible without being allowed to read them anyhow. Some extra money can't hurt, can it?"
    "It can. I don't want to end up like one of those posh halfwits. Besides, Sheffeld, a little less money might do you good. Any more and you'll be drowning in it. I'll forgot we had this conversation, and switch to another topic. You seemed to be doing well before we had this talk. Any reason for that?"
    "Oh yes," he said, nodding with a smile on his face. "I had some good business last night, very late, just before I wanted to close up shop. A boy, in a deep blue coat. He was close to an adult, but not quite there. Wise for his age, though, very observant, quite sharp, it seemed. He almost bought out my entire shop. Everything I had. From beginner's spells to the most advanced scrolls I have to offer. All paid in Golden Goblins, too, and it seemed his pockets were deeper than he showed. I had to buy in some inventory again when I went to the shop this morning. That was a strange thing, but not one I'll complain about," he said, and nodded again, reminiscing about the memory.
    "Really, now? You're not pulling my leg?"
    "I wouldn't dare," he said, with a cheeky smile. "But yes, really. All types, too, from Restoration to Illusion. The Goblins weren't fake, too, I checked."
    "Was there not any ill intent on his face? You might've sold to someone who would use that spell for evil. I mean, Restoration sounds all pure, but if it's used to heal wounds right after you've cleaned out a school, I don't think it's all pure after all."
    "Well, he wasn't a Pureblood, I'm sure of it. I couldn't read any ill intent on his face, only kindness, really. He had good manners, and he was a bit reserved, but that was all that there was to it. Strange, but nothing bad."
     "All right, I do hope so. Listen, Sheffeld, I'd love to stay, but I have a wand I'm a bit behind on. I'll pop over for tea tomorrow, all right?"
    "I'd like that. Until then!" he said, happily, and left towards his shop.
Burglaries weren't too uncommon in this area, so I took a good look at mine. The finest of my wands, stashed before the window in their boxes were still there, and in the same condition I had left them in. My shoes resounded over the wooden planks as I walked, to my desk where I had the register, and a few tools for small repairs. Nothing was missing from the register, it seemed. Behind the register stood three large shelves, reaching as high as the ceiling, all containing dozens and dozens of wand, each their own combination of ingredients, each their personality to serve, and, in time, each their wizard. I had a keen sense on whether I would need to make wands for the future, and what wands those would be. In my six years as a wandmaker, that sense had never failed me. There was a large ladder on wheels as well, attached to the shelves themselves. The wands were stashed in boxes, which themselves were stashed in squares, each large enough just to fit one box. Behind the shelves was a garden filled with dummies, so they could test their wands. My small desk had some spellbooks from Sheffeld in it too, so that customers would have some spells to test. Behind the cupboard were stairs which led to the attic, which I used to store wand components, different types of wood, and whatever else I needed in the shop.
    The scent of cinnamon was wafting through the shop, an old aroma spell of mine which was too persistent to leave, but which brought quite a homely atmosphere to it. I entered through the door to the left of me to see whether anything had been stolen, but everything was still there; my gramophone in the right corner, with all the vinyl plates containing classical and jazz music for the clients, the drinks and sweets for the same audience, even the Pixies' March I had ordered from the Toy district recently. There was a wonderful shop, called Irene's Ideas, which had marvellous ideas from all over the world, gathered in one place. The Pixies' March was no different; a soft drink, which, in contrast to other fizzy drinks, marched pleasantly and nicely on the tongue, a pleasing, lovely feeling. The music was composed of both Unborn music and music of our own making, both masters of their art in their worlds. There were two couched in the middle of the room, one at the back of a low table, and another to the right of it. The aforementioned sweets and drinks stood on that table, with a stack of newspapers as well. I added the one I had read to that pile, and moved on to my wandmaking room.
    The room was a simple one, consisting of a worn desk, battered by scratches and cuts, but as clean as it could possibly be. There was a cabinet right next to it, with pots containing all sorts of ingredients and components. There were large branches which I could use to make wands out of, sorted in a basket right next to my desk, with tags on them sorting them into what types of wood they were. There was a small box with refreshments for myself, a few plants, and a few pictures I kept to remind myself to keep going at it. At the very right side of the desk, there was also a mirror I used to see whether I was in a permissible state to receive clients. I sat down on my chair, and decided to check, just to be certain.
    My light brown curls were a mess, as usual, but they weren't in a fixable state, as they had always been. I was covered in the odd mole, and I had a few freckles too, which you could only see if you were close enough to me to be intimate. They were the stray spats of paints on a canvas, but I liked them nonetheless, because they added character to that painting. Blue-grey eyes stared back at me, under short eyebrows and long eyelashes. I had a round, short nose, not exactly a button nose, but quite close to it. I was relatively tall and neither skinny nor fat, something which I had expertly kept so for a while. I had plump cheeks, but a sharp jawline to compensate for it, and a kindly smile with small lips. I had crow's feet under and near my eyes, since I had worked until late yesterday, and usually did, or stayed up late reading. My curiosity had always been something which I found hard to still. I left my reflection for what it was, and tempered my resolve to work on the assignment. Most clients came to me personally, which meant I had time to work in between clients and they could come back in a few days' time to receive their wand. This case was different, however, and requested the utmost urgency. My client was a nurse out on the front, helping those who fought against the Purebloods, who sacrificed their blood and life's fire to arrest and kill those worse than monsters. She, too, risked her life by being out there, and now that her wand had broken, she was in a more dangerous situation than ever, and powerless. She had sent me a letter yesterday, stressing the urge, but not pushing it. I had to deliver, and I had to do it now. She was a healer, and I took that into account, shaping her wand after what I thought she was like. It was a half-done measure, but the best I could take now. I had already made preparations, having cut the wood and prepared the components. I had calmed the core down, and cut the shards which would be scattered throughout the wand. The wood had been cut in two already, and all that rested me now was to assemble it, which was a dangerous thing to do hastily. I put on my gloves and goggles, and took hold of the tweezers. Would I drop the core, or handle it too roughly, the life force in it would explode, with disastrous consequences. The shards were volatile, and could harm me greatly as well.
    I took the core out of its box, and examined it closely. It had calmed down greatly, but it was still active, vibrating against the air and the tweezers. It was a unicorn horn, one which would work greatly with the balsa wood and Wickling's hoof the shards were made out of. The unicorn horn had been carved into a cube, and there was a corresponding cube cut out in the wand. I put the horn in the gap, very carefully, and found that, indeed, it hadn't exploded, and I was still intact, just as much as my shop was. I scattered the shards over the wand, and cast a spell which made them find their corresponding places in the wand. I had carved them in, which had always been, and continued to be a great labour. They sunk inside slowly, melting with the wood, and travelled through it with sharp jabs, the wand moving slightly whenever they travelled towards their place. Finally, when it was done, I moved the top part of the wand on the bottom parts, and began to carefully trace my wand across the gap which separated the two halves. They blended together once my wand touched them, and once I was done, so was the wand. The grip was perfectly made for her fingers, which she hadn't failed to measure in her initial letter. There were rings around the grip, which ensured that the wand would be easy to keep between the fingers. Healing requires swift, precise, and graceful movements, which this light and easy to grip wand was perfect for. What rested me now was to deliver it. What would soon be her wand in hand, I walked over to the front of the store, popped the mailbox open, and put it in. Every citizen, if they put in a request at their local city hall, could receive such a mailbox for free. Whatever is put in the mailbox is automatically translocated to whatever location the citizen thinks of. I thought of the Arabic front when I put it in and closed the lid, and when I opened it back up to check, it was gone entirely. I turned the sign of my shop with a sigh of relief, and sat down in the chair behind my desk, waiting expectedly for the first customer to come in. All in all, I thought it was likely to just be another day.