by Ted Blasche
Haberdasher glared down his long nose at the Krithlin. “You shall have to explain that in more detail. I cannot conceive of any method whereupon I would threaten an entire planet.”
“It’s not just you, Mr. Haberdasher. It is humans like you. Type A personalities, driven to extremes, until you suck all the life out of everything that comes too near. You’re the kind of human who prefers to crush his opponents, regardless of the consequences.”
“That is a businessman’s prerogative.” Haberdasher’s voice took on an icy quality.
“Incorrect. No sentient has that right. Your actions wound all those around you, spread a social sickness among your species that taints the world.”
“Do not presume to know me, you miniature cat-ingested hairball. Your sad distracted brain could not begin to grasp the intricacies of my life.”
The troll squeaked back, clearly angry.
“He says he doesn’t want to understand you, Mr. Haberdasher. But he’s seen this disease before. You’re sick. You spread your disease daily. The things I’ve seen you do are reprehensible, yet I know you can do worse.”
“What exactly have you seen that is so horrid?”
“The time you fired Epstein for that miscalculation? The one caused by that crappy computer you had him work on? It crashed while he backed up the data for your report, Mr. Haberdasher. He could only recover a fragment of what he’d collected.
Jim swallowed hard. “But you wouldn’t listen to what happened. You pulled him in front of the entire office and berated him for ten minutes! You insulted his clothes, his hair, his lifestyle! You reduced him to tears in front of everyone.”
“The fool deserved it. He cost the company money.”
Jim looked up from the Krithlin. “No sir, he didn’t deserve it. He deserved a decent laptop to work with, not something from the Stone Age. People are worth a whole lot more than their salary.”
Haberdasher pointed his finger at Jim. “That right there,” he crowed, “is why you shall never be a businessman, Jim. You have to be able to cut your losses, trim away waste.”
“You’re talking about people, not beef. And there are plenty of good people in business, Mr. Haberdasher. They don’t feel the need to grind other’s faces in the dirt. They don’t get a thrill out of hurting others.”
“Have a care, Jim. You could be sued for slander.”
“That may be, sir, but I’m not the one who attacked Epstein like that.”
A crimson dancing flower hopped up and down, catching their attention. It proceeded into an epileptic fit, a skittering, twitchy movement of bright leaves, head, and stem. The bangles on the petals made erratic tinkling noises. Jim watched carefully.
“Ramona says they’ve been watching you. You brag about annihilating your opponents in golf. Really, Mr. Haberdasher? Even your golfing buddies are opponents?”
“That is neither here nor there, Jim.”
“Well I’d say it’s a problem, Mr. Haberdasher. Because Ramona says you do it to everyone—business associates, political buddies, even your neighbors.” Jim looked at Haberdasher with sympathy. “You don’t have a friend in the world, man. You’re so vicious that nobody wants to get near you.”
“That is quite enough, Mr. Moonie! How dare you spy on me! My life is my business! Not yours!” How dare Jim pass judgment on me! Haberdasher kicked out, sending dozens of trolls and flowers flying. The air filled with pea-green hair and lavender petals. “I do not need you! I do not need these stupid toys! I do not need your sympathy or their so-called help!”
The trinkets fled before his onslaught. Haberdasher pursued. “I’m going to rip you miniature thugs to pieces and toss your remains in my fireplace!”
One troll with international-disaster orange hair stood frozen. The man ran for the troll, timing his kick so that he would keep his footing after he booted the little terrorist into eternity.
The VW Bug was faster, rolling over the troll without touching it. The headlights and bumper slammed into Haberdasher, sending him flying.
Haberdasher found the wall with his face.
**
Five months after his terrible auto accident, Claude Haberdasher was released from the hospital. His oldest nurse escorted him to the cab, since she could match his crutch-burdened pace. An intern carried his get-well cards and gifts.
A ghost of his old self, Haberdasher’s face held a frozen smile. His eyes were slightly wild as he left the sterile surroundings. He settled in the back of the cab slowly, keeping his crutches close.
The intern filled the seat next to him with his many gifts. He placed a purple-haired troll on Claude’s lap.
“Goodbye, Mr. Haberdasher. I hope you have a nice life,” Nurse Penelope told him as she gave him a quick hug. “Remember what I said about the value of church.”
As they drove off, the troll turned to look Haberdasher in the eye. “Don’t worry, Claude,” he squeaked. “We’ll take care of you. You won’t lack for company or any assistance you might need.”
“Please get out of my head,” Haberdasher whispered, the whites of his eyes showing.
“You’re not ready for that step yet,” the puce flower replied in a sorry-leaf wriggle. “We’ll consider it once your—more aggressive urges—are under control.”
“Please get out of my head,” Claude whispered again. “Please…”
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About the Author of Toys
Chelsea Nolen has been in programming and testing for most of her working life. To get away from the tedium, she writes things—odd, off-the-wall ideas that come to her at irregular intervals. When this is not enough diversion, she cares for her dogs, cats, and 5 family members. Chelsea et al live in Oregon (they appreciate her sense of humor here). Chelsea’s short story, Alien Dust, will be published by Mystery and Horror, LLC, in the summer of 2015.
Learned Magic
By Ted Blasche
Once upon a time in the land of Noll, there lived a wizened old wizard named Zalton. Noll might have been but one of many countries on this world, but it was special. For of all the lands, only in Noll could one find true magic. Here, the old teachers kept it in their bones.
Of all who claimed magic, Zalton was by far the most powerful. Birds gathered to sing him morning songs while crickets chirped him to sleep at night. He fashioned gold from air and water, or dissolved it into a puddle of mud. So great was his fame that supplicants traveled from near and far to beg for his favors. Most of these, he categorically refused, chastising each before sending them scurrying on their separate ways. "You mortals must never depend on the magic of others!"
Every day blended into the next, lacking substance, until that unique morning Zalton emerged from his home to find the sun warm on his face and the air sweet to his nose. These mornings put him in a receptive mood. As he took in the view, a frail, young lass stumbled down the well-worn path that fronted his gate. Draped in burlap, her feet bare on the gray cobblestones, she moved with more pain than any soul should have to bear. Her face, barely skin-covered bone, accentuated her hollowed and haunting eyes. Hobbled but resolute, she carried in her arms a burden too great for her frame to support.
Perhaps it was the scent of his beloved fields of flowers or the songs of feathered friends in the trees, but whatever the reason, her plight softened Zalton's heart, warmed and opened it to this waif struggling to shield her treasure. "Let me share your load," he offered as she stopped to take a ragged breath.
"It's my burden, not yours. One I dare not share." She made as if to say more but sank to her knees instead. With a rasp, her last words fell upon his ears. "My brother, care for him, please..."
Zalton reached out with his magic to shelter her from harm, but when the burlap fell away, he realized that even his magic could not bring the breath of life back to her body. He knelt to console this pathetic stranger, but the veil of death had claimed her soul. Sadly, he watched as it slipped silently from her body, a wisp in the wind freed of its tether, floating
into the sky to join the guardians of all good things.
With a certain longing, Zalton watched as the guardians entwined and enveloped her, escorting this unnamed mother off to the gathering grounds of gentle souls. He wanted to work some spell to bring her back, breathe life into the bag of bones lying at his feet, but such a feat was beyond even his great skill. Instead, he reached down to pick up the child.
"Not much to look at, are you?" He held the bundle at arm's length, worried that it might leak from one of its many orifices. "I guess some provision must be made until we can find you a new home."
True to its nature, the foundling leaked.
Years passed and a new home for the boy never materialized, so Zalton kept the child as his own. Under his care, the baby grew into a mischievous toddler. Always under foot, the man-child played havoc with the ancient warding-symbol scrolls, upset far too many vials of potions, and scribbled over the most sacred of his father's pentacles. After one particularly infuriating day, Zalton, in a fit of anger, named the child for a small growth on the end of his nose.
"Wart, you'll be the death of me yet!" Too young to understand the concept, he just giggled and rubbed another protection-ward from their cottage's single doorframe.
Life in Zalton's household continued in disarray until Wart reached the age of indenture. By then, his reputation as a free spirit dissuaded established craftsmen from considering the adolescent. When Zalton pleaded for their consideration, he received the usual response, "Wart would be more trouble to me than he's worth, I'd sooner work alone than put up with that boy's nonsense."
And so it came to pass that Zalton decided to take Wart as his protégé. "Son, the practice of conjuring is very dangerous, so I will be a demanding task master."
Wart cried, "But I don't want to be a wizard. Your powders make me sneeze, and the scrolls are as dull as dishwater. I want to have fun, join a circus, and tame lions. You don't have any fun."
Not one to change his mind once made, Zalton proclaimed, "Nevertheless a magician you shall be, and I shall train you to the most exacting standards."
Stomping his foot, the child fumed, "You can't make me!"
"No?" Zalton jiggled a small spell with his fingers, and Wart found his feet dancing an uncontrollable jig.
"Make them stop!" Wart gasped as his lungs burned almost as badly as his legs.
"As you wish." The legs slowed their motion until Zalton wove another enchantment using only his wrists. Wart flipped upside down to hang like that side of ox smoking in the wizard's larder.
"Let me down!" The boy-child moaned as the blood rushed to his head.
With a swipe of Zalton's arm, the boy bounced off the wall, falling to his father's feet. "I have always been good to you, tolerant of your foibles, but it's time to become a man. You can refuse to learn my lessons, but from this day forward, your life will be one of misery. The only way you may escape my magic will be to develop your own. As my apprentice, you must find the means to protect yourself or perish." With one last tweak prompting Wart to sneeze uncontrollably, Zalton ordered, "Get a good night's sleep. Your lessons begin tomorrow."
**
Wart rose early and packed a small kit. He would quit his father's house and venture forth to make his own future, perhaps in the army. The reluctant apprentice reached the door, where he smashed into one of his father's denial wards. It was as if he had walked into a window, though none existed to bar his exit. Blood dripping from his nose, the boy screamed, "Father!"
The old wizard rose, adjusting his robe as he climbed down the stairs to the main room. "So you tried to make good your escape." He laughed with unsuppressed glee. "Go ahead, but your efforts will fail. You'll remain trapped in this room until you've learned how to break my imprisoning spell."
Reluctantly Wart asked, "Then please show me the spells, explain their nature."
Wagging a finger in his reluctant student's nose, Zalton answered, "No! You must learn these things on your own. I might choose to coach you, even offer occasional advice, but a wizard's magic must be learned, not taught. That's the one ironclad rule passed down from master to apprentice since wizardry began."
"But...But if I can't leave this hovel, how will I learn?"
"The things you need to become a wizard have surrounded you for your entire life. My scrolls, my implements of power, all of them lie about this very room. They will provide everything you need to become as strong as your master, providing you bend yourself to the task." He walked through the portal, the one that barred Wart, turning to hurl one last gibe, "Don't stand there with your tongue in your ear. Get to work!"
Of course, Wart rejected his father-turned-master's words. The reluctant apprentice dallied and procrastinated until he realized that nothing in his prison would work without magic. Pots that used to provide an unlimited source of food, now sat empty. Jugs of water needed filling, but the well sat beyond his reach in the yard. Hunger and thirst finally drove him to his first lesson. By the time Zalton returned that night, Wart could barely produce a crust of bread and goblet of water.
"I see you might yet die of malnutrition." Zalton chuckled as he conjured up a bowl of steaming meat stew and muffins for himself. "Maybe tomorrow will be better." It was, indeed, but only by the barest lot.
Days faded into weeks, and Wart slowly mastered the spells and enchantments written on the many scrolls he found hidden, some under furniture, others in drawers, and even a few behind false walls. When the apprentice thought he had found the last secret cache, he tried the door once more. Although the barrier weakened sufficiently to keep him from repeating his bloody nose, it continued to deny him exit.
"Zalton," the child in him whined, "I've learned all your magic, but I'm still a prisoner."
His voice softening somewhat, Zalton critiqued his foster son. "Wart, you've done well...even better than I expected, but you're little more than a novice and will remain so until you've mastered my implements of power."
Looking around, Wart complained, "You said everything I needed was here, but there are no implements of power in this house."
"Ha!" Zalton spun, his finger pointing at everything in the room. "They are hidden in the guise of household tools. You must find them, determine their function, and unlock the key to activate them."
"Can you give me a hint?"
Holding a single hand toward Wart, palm facing the child, he said, "One and only one hint will I give. My greatest tool lies concealed in plain sight with those of lesser strength. You can surely access it with no great effort on your part. I will tell you this...it is not the broom, but you must use that to clean this packrat's den soon, or the entire room will revolt against you. After using my implements sufficiently long for them to accept your incantations, every device will permit you to tap into the power contained within."
In frustration, Wart complained, "But I've used every implement from your quill to that old staff in the corner. None of them have as much as twitched for me."
"Let this be your guide. They will only respond to your greatest need, when the fire of truth is in your heart. Remember...for as long as I breathe the new day's air, this will be your last hint."
When the cock crowed, Wart leapt from his bed and flew into the kitchen. He grabbed a ladle from the wall, waving it about, but after an hour, all he had to show for his effort was a sore arm. Next, he grabbed a cook-pot from its place on the shelf. He rubbed the vessel until its copper sheen reflected the rays of mid-day light shining through the window.
Sweat pouring from his body, Wart sighed. "Last night's garlic is revisiting my nose. I really need a bath."
On the table, his pot began to hum and then bubble as hot water rose, filling it to the brim. From its mouth, a gusher of water spouted into the air, dousing Wart's head before cascading down his body to splash onto the floor. "That's enough!" Covering his nose, he shrieked between gasps for air, "No more!" Yet the seemingly endless supply of water kept soaking him to the bone, soon accumulating ankle dee
p on the floor. Bearing witness to the rapid rise of swirling waters, now reaching his seat, he cried out. "I need this to stop before I drown."
With a puff of vapor, the water disappeared, leaving only wet clothing as a reminder of the deluge. "At least the floor and I are both clean," Wart muttered to himself as he carefully placed the pot back on the shelf.
"You must be more diligent, study harder, work at your craft." Zalton scolded each day, until Wart had mastered all but one of the master's devices. "Why are you delaying? Find and master the fulcrum of my power. Do it before the sun sets!"
"But I can't find it," Wart carped and cried as the pressure to escape his prison wore upon his soul.
"Look harder!" Zalton left the cottage. "I shall take my air in the fields. Call me when you've succeeded."
Grumbling, Wart continued his search. He was in the middle of a third round when he heard a roar that shook the windows, glass vibrating in their panes. Grabbing the far-looker-device from Zalton's desk, he dashed up the stairs to the bedchamber that looked out over the open countryside. Zalton stood at the nearest field's edge, watching a strange object falling from the sky.
To Wart, this strange flying object looked like a grain silo with its base on fire, its descent slowing as the strange structure drew ever closer to the ground. With a gush of wind and smoke, the flying building finally touched down, setting small fires in the ripening grain. Zalton stood patiently waiting until a small door opened in the side of the contrivance. When it did, strange looking creatures dressed in silver emerged to walk like balloon figures across the field.
Wart adjusted his far-lookers, but these new arrivals remained elusive. On each head, they wore something resembling one of his kitchen pots, but an opening in each permitted the smallest of glimpses as to their nature. These strangers seemed to have pink-orange faces, so different from his own beautiful shade of green. They did have the right number of eyes, but over each sat a thin ridge of fur. Imagine that...fur on the face! One even had a strip of it under his nose! How disgusting could one get?