by Toby Forward
“Who would have thought it?” said Tadpole.
He smiled. He lifted the cord from around his neck and examined the tooth. Sharp, white, pointed. A dragon’s tooth.
“He was right,” he said.
Tadpole took another look at the reflection of his face in the shield. Delver’s precious present. Smith had recognized it. Tadpole prepared himself for the next thing. His head raised, he could see the courtyard and the people, but he could also see the skies over him.
“Look at them,” he shouted. “Thousands and millions of them. Look at the stars.”
Sam put out his hand, and Flaxfield took it, holding him as he had when Sam was a small boy.
Sam felt no embarrassment or loss of dignity. He just let himself enjoy the memory.
The pain had passed. The burning. The choking. The stinging eyes. The furnace in the lungs. All gone. In an instant.
He leaned a little and looked sideways, to see Tamrin. She was holding Flaxfold’s hand and the two old wizards held each other’s. All four of them, joined in much more than a single line of handclasps.
“It’s all over,” said Sam.
Flaxfield squeezed his hand and replied, in a soft voice, “Not quite. Not yet.”
Sam secretly clicked his fingers. Nothing happened.
“Oh, that’s over,” said Flaxfield. “Our magic. That’s all finished, now.”
“Don’t you mind?” asked Sam.
The moonlight cast strange shadows in the courtyard. Cabbage ran across to December and took her in his arms, lifted her half-upright. Sam saw that the slime had vanished from her.
“She’s all right,” said Flaxfield.
“Have they really known each other since they were children?” asked Sam.
“Yes, but look. Here’s another.”
Sam watched as a boy, frail, yet growing more substantial with every step he took, approached December. Sam let go of Flaxfield’s hand and moved closer, to see what would happen.
The boy stood next to December. He was complete now, all frailty gone. A normal boy. He put his hand out to the figure in Cabbage’s arms. Closer now, Sam could see her clearly.
“Bee?” said Mattie.
December took her eyes away from Cabbage and looked at the newcomer.
“It’s Bee, isn’t it?” said Mattie. “Remember?”
A small girl, pretty, shy, with shining hair in the moonlight, looked back at him.
“It was,” she said. “I was. I remember.”
She took Mattie’s hand in hers.
“Mattie,” she said. “You’ve been here, all this time.”
“Waiting for you. What happened to you?”
Cabbage moved away. Sam, though he felt uneasy listening in, stayed where he was.
“All my life happened to me,” she said. “But look at me now.”
Mattie put his arms around her neck and cried. Sam knew he had to move away now.
“What’s happened to December?” he asked Flaxfield.
“She took her name back from Slowin. And the fire burned away its own damage. She’s the girl she was on her twelfth birthday. The day the wild magic was set loose by Slowin.”
“Slowin,” said Sam. “Ash. Where is she? He?”
“Don’t worry.”
Smith and Dorwin stood by a small man in a tattered grey cloak. He glared out at the wreckage of the castle.
“That’s Ash?” said Sam.
“What’s left of her. It’s Slowin again, now. Now that Bee’s taken her name back.”
“But how could she do that? Why now and not before?”
Flaxfield turned Sam’s attention to the lone figure in the centre of the courtyard. Tadpole had not moved since he had quenched the fire.
“Something slipped,” said Flaxfold. “The old magic was dying with us. The new magic was preparing itself for now. Bee slid into that gap and reclaimed her own.”
“And Smedge?”
“Smedge is gone.”
“For ever?”
“I watched him, most closely. When Tadpole emerged from the flames Smedge just boiled away, like water. He was only ever the excrement of Slowin’s work.”
“But he did all that harm, all that wickedness.”
“All Slowin’s doing.”
The Finished Miners had formed a cordon around the broken walls of the castle. They stood guard, facing out, defying the takkabakks and kravvins to come near. Though, Sam admitted to himself, the beetles showed no desire to approach, no sign of threat. They ambled or stood, as though dazed, drugged. A lost, lonely man wove his way through them, heading away. Frastfil. On his way somewhere safe.
“What shall we do now?” asked Sam.
“Don’t you think we should welcome Tadpole? He’s all alone Up Top.”
“Except for that dragon,” said Sam, kicking a lump of broken stone.
“Come on,” said Flaxfield.
“I’ll go and talk to Jackbones,” said Sam. “He looks terrible.”
He did. No worse than before in shape, but somehow destroyed from within.
“He needs to leave,” said Flaxfield. “He risked his life for us once, years ago, and his punishment was to keep it for far too long.”
“I’ll go and see him,” said Sam.
“No. Come with me. See, Cabbage is going to Jackbones. And Tam and Flaxfold as well. He’ll be all right.”
“I’ll help Smith, then.”
Flaxfield put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, resting against his staff. The magic had gone, but not the old authority. He was still Sam’s master.
“Our magic has gone,” he said. “We have to accept that.”
“But you were the first magic. You and Flaxfold. The two of you are magic. It can’t just end.”
“It hasn’t. It’s just beginning. It’s Tadpole now. Look at him.”
They looked together. Tadpole, alone, in the starlight, his head still raised to the sky.
“Starborn,” said Flaxfield. “New magic. It’s the turn of the Deep World.”
“I don’t want him to have magic. I want it,” said Sam.
“I know.” Flaxfield took his hand from Sam’s shoulder. “I know. But you have to be his friend. Come on.”
Tadpole could see the loss in Sam’s face
as the boy approached him with Flaxfield.
Loss, and dislike. Sam wasn’t looking like a friend. Tadpole tried to smile at the two of them. Flaxfield didn’t hesitate. He strode up to Tadpole and embraced him.
“Well done,” he said. He stepped back and looked Tadpole up and down. “I never thought to see a roffle wizard.”
“Thank you,” said Tadpole. He smiled at Sam. “Hello, Sam.”
Sam nodded and looked away.
“What are you going to do now?” asked Flaxfield.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got work to do,” said Flaxfield. “Where will you start?”
“I don’t know.”
Tadpole looked around at the destruction, the people remaining, the clumsy, confused beetles on the hillside.
“I don’t know,” he repeated. “What can I do?”
“Sorry,” said Flaxfield. “I think Flaxfold’s calling to me. I’ll leave you two to sort it out.”
Sam started to follow, but Flaxfield gently stopped him and turned him to Tadpole. “Talk about it,” he said.
Sam glared at his back. Then he glared at Tadpole. The roffle was afraid he had made an enemy.
“What can I do?” asked Tadpole.
OF MASTERS AND APPRENTICES
Longer ago than anyone can remember, there was a carver. He had the way about him to take a lump of wood and to brush his knife against it, so fast that it was hard to follow the movement. So gently that it seemed to caress the grain. So powerfully, that it bit into the hard oak as a pin pierces cloth. So truly, that when he had finished, the wood was a face, or a hand, a leaf, or a fish, or anything he wanted it to be. His name was Fica. People who had his work treasured it
, and, as the years passed, the pieces became more valuable than gold. Every piece was signed with a small ash leaf cut into the wood.
Many, many years after Fica had died, a skilful woodcarver, Guildgood, chanced to find an old knife on a market stall. He took it in his hand and recognized that the wooden handle bore Fica’s signature. He held it and tested it and knew that it was Fica’s own knife, for carving wood. He bought it, and he used it himself for many years. His work improved and he grew prosperous and sought-after.
When his hand grew unsteady and he could no longer use the knife, he took it to another carver, Orelver. Guildgood explained the story to him and gave him the knife.
More years passed and Orelver’s hands grew tired and stiff. His joints ached, and he could no longer carve wood. He put the knife away, and, when his age was more than he could carry, he told his family to put the knife in his pocket when he was Finished. They did as he said, and the knife never carved wood again.
A WORD TO WIZARDS
You did not choose your apprentice. Your apprentice chose you. Sometimes, a wizard may refuse to take an apprentice. Sometimes, the wrong person will ask you. Not every apple in a barrel is sweet. So be careful never to turn away the right person or to accept the wrong one. But, when you have been chosen and have accepted, then the indenture binds you as firmly as it binds the apprentice.
Never refuse a new apprentice because you are tired, or busy, or happy to be alone for the while. Never refuse an apprentice because you are sad, or angry, or hurt.
Magic is not your property. It is your responsibility.
A WORD TO APPRENTICES
You did not choose your wizard. Your wizard chose you.
You may have knocked on the wizard’s door and asked the wizard to teach you, but the path to the door was laid for you. When the paper is before you and the pen in your hand and the ink in the inkpot and you are ready to sign, you are not choosing your wizard. Your wizard is choosing you.
You bring magic with you, to learn from older magic. But your magic and your wizard’s magic are for the next apprentice, who will be yours to train.
You will not choose your apprentice.
Your apprentice will choose you.
Don’t refuse, unless you are sure
it is the wrong person.
“I don’t know,” said Sam. “What can you do?”
Tadpole put his hand down to stroke the dragon.
“How did this happen?” he asked. “Why a dragon?”
Sam’s eyes filled with tears. “I think there’s often a dragon for a new wizard,” he said. The words clambered up from his throat.
“Will you help me, please?” asked Tadpole.
Sam nodded.
“What can I do?” The same question.
Sam cleared his throat, squared his shoulders and gave Tadpole a hard look.
“Is that the right question?” he said.
“Question for question?” asked Tadpole.
“It’s the wizards’ way.”
“It’s the roffle way.”
“Let’s do it that way, then,” said Sam. “Is that the question?”
Tadpole thought about it.
“Has the dragon got a name?” he asked.
“Where do dragons’ names come from?”
“What’s your name?” asked Tadpole.
Sam stumbled at this question.
“Sam will do,” he said, at last. “No other names now. Wizard names are over.”
Tadpole thought about this.
“Then I’m Tadpole,” he said. “That’ll do for me.”
Sam frowned.
“Flaxfield called you Starborn,” he said.
“No. Tadpole will do for me. It’s simpler.”
The dragon stretched like a cat, stood up, rubbed against Sam’s legs. Sam put his face in his hands and began to shake. The dragon twisted round his legs and almost made him fall. Sam almost laughed, choked and put his hand down to touch the dragon.
“Starborn?” he said.
Tadpole grinned. “Starborn,” he agreed.
The two boys looked at each other straight for the first time since magic had filled Tadpole.
“What can I do?” asked Tadpole.
“Is that the question?”
Tadpole nodded, firmly. “It’s one of the questions,” he said. “What should I do? What shall I do? What may I do? What shall I refuse to do?”
“How do they sound?” asked Sam.
“Good. They sound good.”
“All right, then.”
“Which one first?” asked Tadpole.
“Where do you want to start?”
Tadpole considered this.
“I’d better find what I can do, first.”
“All right. Do I know the answer to that?”
“No.”
“So why are you asking me?”
“I’ve got a lot more questions. Most of them I don’t even know about yet. Will you help me?”
“If you like.”
“Yes.”
“All right. And I’ve got a question for you.”
“What is it?” asked Tadpole.
“What can you do?”
“Let’s see,” said Tadpole.
He stepped to one side, took his staff in both hands and drew in a deep breath. Before he could speak, Sam interrupted him.
“Wait,” he said. “Before you try anything else. What are you going to do about him?”
“Who?”
Sam pointed at Smith and Dorwin and their prisoner.
“Him,” he said. “Slowin. Ash. We can’t just leave him here. Not after what he’s done. Not with what he might still do.”
“Why have I got to do anything?”
“Why do you think?”
Tadpole knew that the question was a challenge, a test. He resisted telling the truth. He could see the hurt on Sam’s face, the anger. He looked for a roffle reply. He searched his mind for an answer to turn away the difficulty.
“I think…” he began.
“Yes. I’m waiting.”
Tadpole held Sam’s gaze. “Because I’m the only one left here with any magic to do the job,” he said. “Your magic is spent. All of you.”
Sam held his breath. Tadpole could see the boy’s effort to control his voice.
“That’s right,” he said, at last. “That’s the truth of it.”
“Is it right? I didn’t answer the question with a question. Was I right?”
Sam gave Tadpole a small punch on the shoulder. “Sometimes,” he said, “it’s up to the wizard to tell the truth, direct.”
Tadpole punched him back.
“Now,” said Sam. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Tadpole started to walk towards Ash. He stopped. Thought better of it. Started again. Stopped again. Looked up at the stars. He clenched his staff with both hands and leaned on it.
A river of light ran out from the end of his staff, flowing over the stone slabs of the courtyard. It spread out, glowing silver in the moonlight, joining light to light.
It reached Sam first. The boy reflected back at himself in the surface. Flaxfield and Flaxfold, Jackbones and Mattie. All, in their turn, were surrounded by the spreading pool. It lapped against their shoes, and when they looked down they were delighted to see themselves looking back.
A small island of black stone surrounded Slowin and his guards. The silver lake drew nearer with effort, repelled and then advanced, resisted, yet overcoming.
Tadpole fought to make the tide surge to them. He concentrated his effort, beginning to understand that magic was like lifting, or pushing, or doing a hard sum in your head. It needed effort.
Something was pressing back the surge of the silver tide. Either Slowin was resisting, or some other force that protected Slowin.
Tadpole braced himself, gripping the staff ever more strongly. He strove against the impediment.
The flow covered Smith’s feet. He bent down and touched it with his finge
r. When he stood, his whole hand shone. Dorwin next, who allowed the small waves to lick her feet.
At last, Tadpole made one, strong effort and the island disappeared. The sea of silver light was complete. It reached Slowin and bubbled up around him. Tadpole walked towards him, holding the spell tight. He looked at Slowin. He looked down. Ash reflected up at him. Tadpole looked up again. Ash looked back at him, and Slowin was reflected in the silver.
“Which are you?” asked Tadpole. “Who are you?”
Slowin’s face was hard with effort. He struggled to work a spell.
“Careful,” said Smith. “There’s a little magic left there. Enough to hurt.”
Tadpole nodded. He stepped closer to Slowin, and could feel the wizard’s breath on his face, smell the rank odour from his mouth.
“What are you?” he asked.
Slowin jabbed his fist out at Tadpole, catching him off guard. The roffle staggered. Slowin pushed past him and tried to run towards the ruined gate.
“Stop him,” shouted Sam. “He’s getting away.”
Slowin’s feet splashed in the silver light, scattering droplets like stars. Each one bored through him, leaving a gap. The more he ran, the more they tore him away.
“Stop,” said Tadpole. He flicked a spell at the wizard, and halted him. “Look at you,” he said. “You’re destroying yourself. Stay there. I’ll make you better. I’ll help you.”
Slowin beat his fists in the air, against the spell. “Leave me,” he called. “Let me alone.”
Tadpole held him in the spell. “If you run again, you’ll die before you reach the gate,” he said. “You’ll destroy yourself. Stay where you are. I’ll come and help you. You’ve done me no harm, not really. I’ll help you, as long as you do no more harm to anyone else.”
He let slip the spell and walked towards Slowin, his hand out.
Slowin’s fists stopped meeting resistance. He felt the holding spell disappear.
“You’ll help me?”
“Yes. Stay there.”
Slowin became Ash. “We can work together.” She smiled. “Both of us. Now that Smedge has gone.” Her face radiated joy. “You’ve got new magic. We can share.”
“No. Not that. I’ll help you. But magic is over for you.”