A Spell Gone Wrong

Mat woke to the first light of dawn falling on his sleeping eyes, in accordance with Hurin’s idea of ‘when a working man should rise.’

And here’s another day… in Hurin’s service. He sighed. If only Father wasn’t the gambler he is…

Mat’s father Olvan had borrowed a large sum of money from Hurin, the magician. During one of his renowned gambling expeditions, he blew all of that, and when the time came to return the money with interest, Olvan failed to deliver. As Olvan was too busy ‘making money,’ as he put it and none of his other children were old enough, Mat, the eldest, had to work off the debt. And cope with all of Hurin’s eccentricities. But then, the man was skilled.

Mat went through his routine, trying to drag out everything longer than needed. Don’t put it off any longer, you fool. Finish whatever work he gives you and be done with it.

Sighing dejectedly for the sixtieth time in half as many minutes, Mat made his way to Hurin’s house-cum-workplace. It was a cozy little place, really, with two stories; one for living and one for working. Climbing the lengthy, spiral stairway, the smells and sounds of bubbling potions, animated objects, and sizzling spells hit him long before he reached the first level. As he walked to the tiny office reserved for him, Mat saw Hurin moving around his workshop, doing and redoing things he had already done, mumbling to himself, searching for something that was right under his nose, talking to no one about some spell or the other.

Mat suppressed another surge of self-pity. Look at him! He looks like a madman!

With a passing greeting for Hurin- and after receiving a mumbled response- Mat walked into his personal office and promptly sat down on the chair… only to have it give beneath him. Damn Hurin! He must have taken another chair leg for stirring his potions- he has a penchant for misplacing them, or, rather, they have a penchant for dissolving into mush.

Taking an extra chair from the storage- God knew they had enough of those! - Mat began going through all of Hurin’s paperwork. Hmnn… a request for assistance… the returns of an investment… exotic Dragonfang seeds from… Phanalm?... Phlanam?... Panalham, he decided.

Mat had just begun to reach for the next document in the pile when Hurin burst through the door. “Daily village stroll. Leave in five minutes. Get ready.”  His voice had a deep, sonorous timbre, sharply in contrast to his small frame and slender build. When Hurin said now, he meant now, and woe befalls he who disappoints the great absent-minded magician. If Hurin wanted you and you didn’t appear on time, he’d come and just drag you away with magic, no matter what you were doing- even if what you were doing was Hurin’s own paperwork.

Hastily sorting the unread and read documents into unruly piles, Mat got up with a grimace. These daily ‘strolls’ of Hurin’s are a pain! Hurin went for strolls in the village every day, inspecting the daily events, helping anyone who needed help. And those ‘strolls’ lasted for about four hours. Very tiring. And then he blames me for not finishing my work for the day when he drags me along for his crazy hikes. What with all his potion-brewing and spell-casting, Mat suspected that these strolls were the only times Hurin came into contact with other humans.

“Matthew!” Hurin hollered. “Late! Come fast!”

“Coming!” Mat yelled back.

Hurin’s residence was quite isolated- he didn’t want anybody to disturb him and nobody wanted to interfere with a magician’s business. As such, after a couple of years, the abandoned houses surrounding it had fallen into disrepair and the forest had crept in. Creepers and vines and what-not surrounded the house. Hurin marched across the tiny forest, staff in hand, seemingly never encountering any obstacles at all. Mat’s journey, however, was quite a different matter. He ran along every few minutes to catch up with Hurin, yet fell back again as he slowed to a brisk walk- which was easily outmatched by Hurin, of course. The man could outrun a horse… and never go faster than a walk. Thorny vines and hard, rigid branches that seemed to leave Hurin alone of their own volition targeted Mat with a vengeance, and he could barely go a few paces without suffering a smack or stab.