The Magical Book of Wands

by Raven M. Williams

  Ashby drops the dustpan and broom, grabbing Sam and hugging the dog to him.

  “What is it, boy? What’s got you in a tizzy?”

  He peers into the corner, but doesn’t see anything. At least, not at first. Slowly a form steps forward, and an old man, with long white hair and beard appears. He’s dressed in a long white robe with golden embroidered stars and moons. On his head is a pointy hat made from the same fabric. His green eyes twinkle with amusement and a little mischief, and his face is wrinkled with age.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” gasps Ashby.

  With a nod of his head, the old man points a slender wooden stick at the fireplace and whispers. Sparks shoot from the end of the wand, and instantly, the fireplace is spotless.

  “Wow. That’s amazing. Thank you. Pray tell, who are you?” breathes Ashby.

  “I am Myshan, your Guardian Wizard at your service,” he replies.

  “Guardian Wizard? I don’t understand. You mean to tell me, wizards are real? They exist? I thought they had all but faded from the world, becoming nothing more but legend and myth in this time,” exclaims Ashby.

  “Oh, we exist. But we do most of our work from the shadows now, each of us assigned to watch over a mortal who’s destined for something great in their lifetime. I was assigned to you,” replies Myshan, as he exits the parlor and heads for the next room with a fireplace.

  There, he points his wand at it and it’s instantly clean. Ashby follows him from room to room, their conversation continuing.

  “That still doesn’t explain why you’ve showed yourself to me now,” says Ashby, frustrated at the wizard’s reticence.

  “I’m here, because you’re going to the ball,” says Myshan, grinning.

  “That’s impossible. Even though I was invited, I have nothing to wear, thanks to my stepmother and stepbrothers, and there’s no way to get anything now.”

  “Ah, but you’re wrong, my boy. Nothing is impossible,” says Myshan, pointing his wand at Ashby.

  He gives it a wave, then chants, “Fabrics of linen and threads of gold, clothe him in finery with nary a fold. Transfiguratio.”

  Suddenly, blue and green sparks shoot from the end of the old wizard’s wand and flow towards Ashby. He jumps back, frightened by what he sees, but the sparks continue coming towards him, encircling him in a blue-green haze. When it clears, he’s decked out in proper finery, fitting of a young man attending a royal gathering.

  His pants are a dark blue with silver thread down the outside of each leg. His feet are clad in dark black boots, the shine of which blinds the eye when light hits it. His tunic is a light blue with silver threads, the sleeves slightly billowing at the shoulder, but tight about the wrists, yet not too tight to prohibit movement. Ashby stares at himself in amazement. The outfit is exactly like the one his stepmother destroyed, yet in a different color.

  “It’s perfect. But I still can’t go,” says Ashby, as the previous moment’s excitement fades.

  “Oh yes, you need a mount,” says Myshan. You stepbrothers borrowed your horses. No matter. I can fix that.”

  The wizard turns and goes outside, Ashby and Sam following. Once in the courtyard, Myshan points his wand at Sam.

  “What are you doing?” yells Ashby. “He’s my dog and my only source of comfort here at home. Don’t hurt him.”

  “My boy, I’m not going to hurt him, just change his form for a bit. When tonight is over, Sam will return to the dog he is. Trust me.”

  He mutters a few words, the phrase ending with Transfiguratio as before. Suddenly, Sam grows several feet taller, and his fur changes from that of a dog to that of a horse. When the horse turns his head to look at Ashby, he can see Sam’s personality shine through.

  “There, you have your ride to the ball. Now, mount up. Time’s a-wasting.”

  Ashby starts to get on the horse, then realizes there’s still something missing.

  “I don’t have a sword. The invitation said each young male must have a sword, or they won’t be admitted.”

  “You have a sword. Your father’s,” answers Myshan.

  “I forgot all about his sword. But I fear it’s been hidden away so long, it will need polished. There’s no time for such a thing.”

  “Go get it, my lad. I will make it shine,” says the wizard, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

  Ashby rushes to the storage shed and locates the marked floorboard, he scratched up years earlier. Pulling it up, he reaches into the hole and pulls out the fabric-wrapped bundle, then runs back to where the old man waits. Unwrapping it, the sheath disintegrates in his hand, leaving Ashby holding a rusted blade, the leather wrapped around the hilt, barely intact and moldy.

  “My, my, it has been neglected,” exclaims Myshan. “No matter. I can fix that.” He begins chanting, “Take away all rust and grime. Make this metal blade shine! Transfiguratio!”

  He points his wand at the sword in Ashby’s hand. Red and orange sparks shoot out of it and into the sword. Instantly, the rusty blade shines as if polished daily, and the hilt is fully restored. Ashby’s mouth drops open in awe. Before he can say a word, the sparks change to a yellow color and a brand new leather sheath and belt appear, the sheath encasing the blade.

  “There you go, lad. Put it on. Hurry, hurry,” coaxes Myshan.

  Ashby does as the old wizard bids him, then he gets on the enchanted stallion, turning him in the direction of the castle.

  “Thank you, sir, thank you for everything,” says Ashby.

  “You are welcome, my lad. Now remember, you must leave the castle before the last stroke of midnight, for all this magic will cease at that time. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” replies Ashby, flicking the reins, taking off for the ball.

  Chapter Six

  Ashby races down the main road, heading for the castle. Sam, now his faithful stallion breathes hard, the breaths visible in the chill of the night air. As they draw closer to the royal palace, Sam flicks his head and slows to a fanciful prance, as if performing for the guards.

  Ashby draws back on the reins, and Sam comes to a halt in front of the castle steps. Off to the side are rows of carriages belonging to the other guests. At the far end, he sees the rental carriage that brought his stepmother. He makes a mental note to stay far away from her tonight. If she finds out he is there, there’ll be hell to pay when they both get home.

  He dismounts, handing the reins to one of the guards, who leads the horse over to a trough and ties it up. He rushes up the steps to the castle entrance. There he’s met by a servant, who hands him a dark blue mask that complements his finery. He slips it on and enters the castle, heading for the ballroom.

  He breathes a sigh of relief to learn the guest introductions are over and he won’t have to go through it. He slips off to the side, mingling with the other guests, grateful no one knows who he is. He declines an offer of a drink, as he wants to keep a clear head. It’s not long before he’s face to face with Princess Avicia. She smiles brightly, as the orchestra begins to play a waltz.

  “Dance with me,” she implores. “So far, the young men I’ve met have been great bores. They’re only interested in talking about themselves and how great a match we would make. I can’t convince any of them I’m not interested.”

  “As you wish,” says Ashby, intrigued by Avicia. He’s always admired her beauty and strength. If he were to be totally honest with himself, he’s a bit smitten by her. But, as the royal scribe, he believes the King would never consider him a suitable match, so he’s put all thoughts of the Princess from his mind, instead, focusing on his work.

  Still, it can’t hurt to pretend, tonight only, that she might have feelings for me too.

  As they waltz around the room, swirling and turning with the other guests, the Princess says, “You are a wonderful dancer.”

  “Thank you. My father taught me.”

  “That’s so wonderful. You and your parents must have a wonderful relationship.”

  “My father a
nd I did. I really didn’t know my mother. She died when I was very young. I’ve recently lost my father, so now it’s just me.”

  “How terrible. It must be really lonely for you.”

  “Not really. I have my work to keep me busy. But, enough about me. Tell me about you. What are your hopes and dreams?”

  They spend the rest of the night dancing and talking, Ashby thrilled to learn more about the Princess. The other male guests are unhappy at his monopoly of Avicia. They, too, are vying for her affections and are jealous of the time he spends with her. Wilmont is especially angry and plots to find out the identity of the one standing in his way.

  He storms over to where Abigail and Ferrant stand, watching the Princess. They are also fuming.

  “So,” he asks, “what’s your plan for ensuring I am the one dancing with the Princess and not that snot-nosed brat?”

  “In a minute, in a minute,” says Abigail, motioning for Wilmont to lower his voice. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to whom he is? He arrived after introductions were made. I’ve asked around, but no one knows who he is. We can’t plan, if we don’t know who were dealing with.”

  “Fine. Then how do you propose we find out?” snaps Wilmont.

  “I could slip up behind him and unmask him,” suggests Ferrant.

  “No,” declares Abigail. “That will only draw attention to us. We wait. It’s almost midnight. At that time, the masks come off, and we’ll know who we’re dealing with.”

  “Whatever,” says Wilmont. “I think I’ll speed up the process and go cut in. We are allowed to cut in, aren’t we?”

  His dark sarcastic tone causes even Abigail to pause. She never realized just how dark Wilmont has become.

  His father was like that. But surely Wilmont doesn’t know the truth about his father?

  She holds her tongue, as Wilmont stalks off, heading for the Princess and the stranger.

  “Excuse me, your highness, may I have this dance,” he says with a bow, exuding as much charm as he can muster.

  Princes Avicia hesitates. She’d much prefer to continue dancing with the tall dark stranger. There’s something about him that draws her. Still, as the ball is in her honor, she is obligated to dance with everyone, so she acquiesces, begging the stranger to save her the next dance.

  “As you wish,” says Ashby with a bow, disguising his voice just a bit so his stepbrother doesn’t recognize it.

  Finally able to spend time with the Princess, Wilmont ignores the stranger, nary giving him a second thought and spins off, taking the Princess with him. Ashby stands there watching them, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He’s disappointed to no longer be spending time with Avicia, yet grateful for the time he’s had. Suddenly very hungry, he decides to grab a bite to eat, before it’s his turn to dance with the Princess once more.

  After several turns around the dance floor, the Princess, finally breaks free of Wilmont’s hold and curtsies.

  “Thank you, kind sir, for the dance. I must dance with others now. Perhaps before the night is over, we shall dance again,” she says, intending to spend the rest of the ball dancing with only one man.

  But she can’t tell him or the others that. Besides, there’s something creepy about the one standing before her. His touch makes her skin crawl. She can’t wait to put as much distance as possible between the two of them.

  Wilmont bows, barely able to contain his anger.

  He replies in clipped tones, “Thank you, your highness. I look forward to another dance later.”

  He watches as Princess Avicia walks away, jealousy consuming him.

  She’s looking for the stranger. I know she is. What does he have that I don’t?

  He storms off, searching for his mother. One way or another, he’ll find a way to end the man blocking his path towards a match with the Princess.

  Chapter Seven

  Ashby stands alongside the ball room wall, watching the activities before him. Couples continue to dance, while others mingle and converse. Still others are eating and drinking, all dressed in their finest garments meant to impress. While he can see the appeal of a grand ball, it’s also a bit wearing pretending to be someone he’s not. He still can’t imagine why the King insisted he come.

  His thoughts quickly turn to the Princess. I wonder, would she be so quick to spend time with me if she knew I am the lowly scribe who pens her father’s proclamations? It matters not. After tonight, we’ll both go back to our lives, the Princess none the wiser as to who I truly am. It will be a small moment in time we’ll both enjoy and remember for the rest of our lives. Nothing more.

  The Princess, having scoured the entire crowd for the handsome stranger, finally finds him. She walks up to him, her brilliant smile lighting her bright blue eyes.

  “There you are,” she says. “I was beginning to think you’d left without saying goodbye.”

  “I would never do such a thing, your highness. That would be the height of rudeness,” replies Ashby with a wink.

  “That’s good to know,” she says, chuckling. “Still, I’m looking forward to midnight when the masks come off. I’m longing to know who you are.”

  As the words leave her lips, the clock begins striking twelve. Ashby panics, for when the final stroke chimes, the magic of his Guardian Wizard will end.

  “Your highness, I’ve enjoyed myself immensely, but I must go. Thank you for a wonderful night. I shall not forget it,” says Ashby hurriedly.

  He turns and rushes off, ignoring the Princess’ calls coming from behind. He dashes out the door and down the stairs. The guardsmen, seeing his approach, retrieves his horse, having it ready by the time Ashby reaches the bottom of the stairs.

  As he mounts, his belt comes loose, and his sword falls to the ground, the sound muffled by the leather sheath. Ashby rides off, driving Sam at a furious pace, praying they are out of sight of the castle before the enchantment ends. Just as they enter the forest, Sam drops to the ground, his form twisting and bending, as he returns to the dog he truly is. Ashby just has time to get off before the transformation is complete.

  He pulls the mask he’s still wearing off his face and pushes it into the pocket of his everyday clothes. He kneels down to check on Sam.

  “Are you okay? Can you walk home?” he asks, stroking the dog’s head.

  Sam jumps up and licks his face in reply. Ashby laughs.

  “Okay, then, let’s get going. We must be sure to be home and in our places before Abigail and her sons returns.”

  Sam yips and they head down the road together, Ashby’s mind on his time spent with the Princess.

  MEANWHILE, PRINCESS Avicia follows Ashby. She reaches the bottom of the stairs, watching as the stranger bolts from the castle grounds, the sound of his horse’s hooves echoing around her. At her feet lay Ashby’s sword, still firmly ensconced in its leather sheath. She bends down and picks it up.

  “How will I find you? I don’t even know your name,” she says with a sigh.

  Tucking the sword under her arm, she retires to her chambers, leaving the ball to continue without her.

  DAYS PASS AND THE PRINCESS grows more despondent. She longs for the stranger in whose arms she danced. Her father tries to cajole her into a match with one of the other young lads, but she refuses. It’s the stranger or no one.

  Finally, deciding to take action, the King takes the sword from the Princess.

  “What are you doing? Give it back to me,” she demands, rising from her bed.

  “Wait, child. Hear me out,” pleads the King.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I will make a proclamation. Simon will travel throughout the land, some of the guardsmen accompanying him. He will visit each home. Any lad residing within must pull the sword from its sheath. The one who does is the one whom the blade belongs to and will win your hand in marriage.”

  Avicia frowns.

  “But there’s a flaw in your plan, Father. Anyone can pull the sword from the sheath. See?”


  Avicia reaches out and draws the blade, holding it aloft.

  “Yes, but you are not a man. Replace the blade, then watch, please.”

  Avicia slides it back into the sheath. The King hands it to her. She takes it, holding it so the hilt faces towards her father. The King grabs the hilt and tries to withdraw it as Avicia did moments earlier, but it refuses to budge.

  “See. No man can draw the sword, except the one to whom it belongs. This plan will work. Trust me.”

  “But how is that possible?”

  “The sword is enchanted.”

  “How did you know it was?”

  “I can see the aura of magic surrounding it. Do you not see it?”

  Avicia squints at the blade. In the bright light of day, she can barely make out the blue shimmer surrounding the blade.

  “How could I have missed that.”

  “It matters not now. So, do you trust me, daughter? Will you allow me to implement this plan?”

  “Okay, Father. But I reserve the right to refuse the match, if I don’t feel what I did the night of the ball. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” says the King, unable to refuse his daughter anything.

  The King hurries to the study, the sword tucked under his arm. Ashby stares at the leather sheath, realizing it’s his. He didn’t even know he’d dropped it. In his astonishment, he doesn’t hear a word the King is saying.

  “Ashby, are you listening?” asks the King.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. What did you say?” apologizes Ashby.

  The King details his royal proclamation and orders Ashby to scribe two copies; one for the royal courtyard, and one Simon will carry with him. The words of the decree cause Ashby to pale. What will the King say or do when he finds out the sword belongs to his scribe?

  Chapter Eight

  Abigail rushes into Wilmont’s room, shaking him awake.

  “Wake up, Wilmont, wake up!”

  “Leave me alone, Mother,” he groans, pulling the covers over his head.