by Porphyro
THE END
2. THREE FAILED WIZARDS AND A HEIST
§1. Inside a shabby hut, a few miles from the crime:
Here are three reasons to kidnap the Witch, none of them very good: 1) to learn from her; 2) to eradicate the threat she poses (that is to say, to kill her); and 3) to possibly obtain an enormous ransom.
“An enormous ransom? From who?” Well somebody must love her. She must have come from somewhere, right? Or, to be more precise: she must have come from someone. There must be a mother and a father of some sort. And if there are parents, then there must be grandparents, too. Aunts, uncles. Friends!
See how quickly we normalize the Witch? If she has friends, she might have lovers as well. There’s even a tiny chance that they are rich.
In fact, there’s even a tiny chance that she herself is rich. Yes, perhaps she has bags and bags of golden coins hidden in her house. Under the bed, inside her socks….
Well, a man can only dream so much. (And this man, Nader, was certainly dreaming. Sigh!)
Because none of the above is necessarily true of the Witch. For all he knew, she could have sprouted from the swamp like a shrub of poison berries. Aye, she could have come to the world fully-formed and awful. No one who loved her, and no one she loved. No long genealogy, no aristocratic romance. To put it bluntly: no one to ante up a ransom.
“Well,” Nader thought to himself, “if nobody else, then perhaps these two will pay for her. After all, much money’s wasted on ‘education’ these days. They might think she’s worth the millions!” He drummed his long, delicate fingers on his chin.
Brett the scholar certainly looked like he had millions. “He’s so elegantly dressed,” thought Nader. “And so handsomely put together! Well, I mean his face. Look at that! Good chin. Smooth black skin. And eyes! What piercing eyes! What intelligent expression. What a nobleness of soul! Why would such a man waste his life on books?”
Because the books weren’t an end to themselves. They were merely his portal to magic. If you could read how to make an ocean from a single drop, wouldn’t you dedicate all of your hours to the pursuit as well?
Too bad that none of them had learned anything at all.
Nader realized it was likely that none of them ever would, either.
Which is why he was desperate to cash in his dreams and show something for a decade of fruitless study.
The three of them weren’t friends. They were merely associates in the eldritch pursuit of learning magic. Ten years, it had been! Ten years of useless meetings! A sacrifice of romance, time, and money. And for what?
Brett was the most advanced among them, but even he could barely change a color blue to a color purple. From yellow to another yellow--that was the extent of his sorcery.
Still, Brett was a persistent one. Right now, for instance, he was--as per usual-- reading and re-reading the same passage over and over again. He was having an impossible time keeping awake, but he wouldn’t ever dare admit such a thing to himself. “The ‘Overman Schedule” admits no flaws!’ he’d say. So what if he only takes two naps a day? It allows him more time to…zzzz.
Huh?
Oh!
It allows him more time to read! Yes, to read and read plenty and plenty of books! All sorts of them, too! Uh-huh, uh-huh. Because, see, Brett reads manuals on dragons and spells and summoning fairies and fairies and…zzzz.
Frye, too, was asleep, albeit he was more honest about it. Instead of drooling on some open book of ancient lore, Frye was nicely tucked in his bed, dreaming. And what dreams they were! Violent, horrible dreams! Bloodshed and axes and...oh my. Such terrible things!
But nobody would know that by looking at his smiling face. He looked as if he were having the very fuzziest of dreams.
That doesn’t mean he appeared all that harmless, though.
He was a huge man in possession of a frightening mustache and an even more frightening strength.
On the other hand, he had such a nice smile…. And he had innocent dimples and…oh! You’d never guess his viciousness. You really wouldn’t.
He eats chicken bones like they were the fingers of his victims: with relish. Munch, munch, munch, crunch.
Frye was the one, of course, who planed to kill the Witch. If asked why, he’d say, “She’s a menace. The world is better off without such a creature inhabiting it. The threat is too much.” A selfless man!...perhaps.
All in all, though, one had to admit that--surprisingly--the most useful one among them was actually Brett.
Brett, for example, had built the hut they were staying at. We won’t pretend he came out here to the edge of the woods and sawed the trees himself. Nor will we insinuate he took to hammer and muscle and sweated the hut to completion. No--he had builders, of course, and laborers and decorators (though they were awful). What he did was he surveyed the location. Not too far from the Witch’s house and not too close, either.
So then here we are, the three of them dreaming, scheming, and aching for smarts.
“I hope I’ll learn!”
“I wish she’d die!”
“How I yearn for those billions!” (Wasn’t it millions before?)
These are the happy words. The happy, happy words before everything goes wrong.
Oh! Why won’t they stay as they are? Why go seek out the Witch?