Wandmaker

by Ed Masessa

  “I thought you said it was only a thousand feet.” Dai She grumbled, stopping to wipe the perspiration from his face and take a long draft of water from his canteen.

  “I said the cave we need is a thousand feet below the surface. The tunnel to get there is angled, and as you can see, does not go in a straight line.” Markhor wrinkled his nose, pulling even with Dai She. “We still have a ways to go.”

  “I hope, for your sake, we have enough time to make all the necessary preparations,” Dai She threatened.

  “And what exactly is there to prepare?” Markhor was irritated. “The crystals you asked me to locate are already in place. They’re pure and huge and millions of years old. You’ll have everything you need.”

  Dai She smiled wickedly. “How do you think we will harness the full energy of the moon’s beams a thousand feet below the surface?”

  Markhor stared blankly as it dawned on him what needed to be done. And knowing all too well that he would be the one doing it. He mentally kicked himself for not putting the pieces together earlier. “Prism alignment,” he said dismally.

  Dai She nodded enthusiastically. His shrill giggle echoed off the walls. “A crystal anchored at every turn, precisely aligned to reflect and amplify the full power of the moon. When the beams reach the cavern, they will trigger a chain reaction that nothing can stop. The West Coast of the United States will cease to exist. The East Coast will fall into the ocean. Mountain ranges will tumble. Tsunamis will rage across Europe and Asia. Volcanoes will explode throughout the Pacific Ring of Fire. It will be the greatest day in history!”

  His voice rose with excitement. “The hydrogen bomb will seem like a firecracker in comparison. And we will be lighting the fuse!” He marched forward, his evil cackle growing louder with each step.

  Two months earlier, researchers had noted a fragile fissure in the limestone. They exercised extreme care, keeping the decibel level of their activity to a minimum. A piece of yellow tape on the tunnel wall marked the width of the fissure.

  Markhor thought nothing of it as he walked past. And he didn’t see it move, ever so slightly.

  The entrance to the Cave of Crystals had been sealed by a conservation group. A massive iron door, custom-fit to the opening and bolted to the cave wall, contained dead bolts and padlocks to keep out treasure hunters.

  Dai She touched a wand to the center of the door and blew on it as if he were blowing out a candle. The padlocks exploded into tiny pieces and the dead bolts disintegrated. Fortunately, Markhor was standing off to the side, just barely out of range of flying fragments. He was impressed by the power Dai She had at his disposal and the speed with which he could summon it. Dai She didn’t just experiment with darkness; he embraced it. Any doubts he had about Dai She’s ability to harness the bad moon’s energy were quickly disappearing.

  The big man grunted with effort as he yanked the door open. Before he could step through, he was met by a blast of heat and quickly slammed the door shut.

  “I told you it was hot in there,” Markhor said as he turned to conceal the slightest of smiles.

  “Then I’ll be getting my money’s worth out of you, won’t I?” Dai She answered maliciously.

  Markhor had trained himself to be ready for anything. He reached into his pack and pulled out a heat-resistant blanket similar to one used by men who fight forest fires. He was eager to get started and just as eager to finish. Dai She looked away quickly, but not before Markhor saw a glimmer of admiration. “Ready when you are,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

  Twenty minutes later, Markhor emerged, drenched in sweat, straining to carry a crystal rod four feet tall and a foot in diameter. A normal man might have lasted only half as long. But a normal man did not have the essence of a Wand Master. He quickly rummaged in his pack and drained the electrolyte fluid from his canteen. He knew water would not be sufficient to prevent dehydration but now worried that he had not brought enough of the life-sustaining fluid.

  “I am going to need help.”

  “Then I suggest you find some,” Dai She remarked with little concern. “Perhaps that old man has more uses than just operating a few toggle switches.”

  Markhor had trouble concealing his growing disdain for the powerful Wand Master. He could not believe this abomination was his—

  Quickly he wiped the train of thought from his mind, lest Dai She attempt to tap into it and discover something he was not to know. He had to keep his thoughts and emotions in check. By the end of the day he would be physically drained. Emotions would be the reserve fuel he would need to call upon.

  “The old man would die down here. I’ll need to get one of the mining carts to move the rest of the crystals.”

  “Do what you must, but be quick about it!” Dai She yelled. “Time is a luxury you do not have.”

  When he returned with a freshly oiled cart, he found Dai She leaning against a tunnel wall, grinning from ear to ear—a most unpleasant sight.

  A brief glance at Dai She’s work quickly explained why he was smiling. The crystal Markhor had pulled from the cave had been polished and honed with the precision of a diamond cutter. The sides were now perfectly planed to provide pinpoint reflection. He reached over to feel the surface, drawn to it like a magnet.

  “Don’t touch it!” Dai She snapped. “Even the slightest trace of oil from your skin will affect it.”

  “How did you do it?” Markhor asked admiringly.

  “That’s none of your concern,” he replied. “Maybe, if you’re a good boy, I’ll show you … someday.” His high-pitched laughter bounced through the tunnel. And when he heard its echo his sweaty face gleamed happily and he laughed even louder.

  Markhor felt a slight tremor beneath his feet, but Dai She was shaking too hard to notice. For the first time he wondered about the stability of the walls and remembered the yellow tape farther back in the tunnel.

  “Now hurry along! By my count, we need eight more of them. And don’t cheat on size. This one was barely big enough to work with.”

  Markhor wrapped himself in the blanket, entered the cave, and shut the door, Dai She’s incessant cackle bleeding through the seams.

  Two hours later, they were almost halfway done. Markhor was glad to see that while the physical effort was taking its toll on him, the use of elemental power was taking a similar toll on Dai She. Still, he needed to rest to recover his strength.

  Dai She accompanied him to the surface. The sun sat low in the sky, baking the valley floor. He checked on the security guard and gave him water, which he drank greedily through fits of cursing.

  Much to Markhor’s relief, he found a cabinet with a supply of energy drinks and electrolyte water. He passed on the former and offered the water to the guard before guzzling another quart himself. He was about to ask the old man if he needed to relieve himself when he saw the dark stain on the front of his pants.

  Markhor looked away quickly in shame and embarrassment. “Sorry, old-timer.” Then he briefly touched the man’s bindings and muttered something softly. The old man probably wouldn’t notice at first, but the knot that held him would be just a little bit looser the next time he tugged at it.

  Then Markhor took the squirming falcon from the sack, placed it in a corner, and lightly covered it with an old, oily blanket. “Be still,” he commanded.

  “What took you so long?” Dai She was waiting just outside the door. He peered around the small confines of the cabin suspiciously. Satisfied, he slammed the door shut and pounded his massive frame back toward the tunnel entrance.

  The remainder of the day unraveled at a snail’s pace, as days tend to do when one is being schooled. The world opened up to Henry in ways he’d never dreamed possible. The process of creating storage compartments in his brain became easier with practice and proper instruction.

  Henry, the willing student. Coralis, the patient teacher.

  Layer upon layer was added to each drawer. Pop quizzes taught him how to retrieve the information, the draw
ers opening easier each time until they rolled on well-greased hinges.

  The train continued to speed westward. Henry’s ears popped as it proceeded to climb into the mountains of Colorado before changing course southward into New Mexico, where the beauty of the southwestern countryside tugged at Henry’s ability to concentrate.

  Pictures didn’t do it justice. Henry had seldom set foot out of his hometown, and it was as if they’d entered a completely different country. Henry recalled wondering why there were so many colors in a box of crayons, and now he understood. It was all so beautiful and unusual and unique. At one point the train entered a tunnel that ran directly through a mountain. They were in darkness for over a minute.

  Rather than fight the elements, Coralis shifted his lesson plan. They opened a new drawer and labeled it geology and discussed the passing landscape in minute detail. Henry absorbed the information like a sponge, his love of rocks and minerals making it easy. When his interest shifted to the amazing rock formations, Coralis turned that corner along with Henry and delved into the formation of landmasses with such detail that Henry thought he must have been there at the beginning of time.

  He couldn’t stop. He needed more and more. Coralis had lunch delivered to their cabin.

  Brianna grumbled—though secretly she was enjoying the lessons almost as much as her brother. When she tired of looking out the window from her perch on Coralis’s shoulder, she curled on the seat next to him, feigning sleep.

  The train continued west through New Mexico, finally entering Arizona in the early evening. “This feels … right,” Henry said with difficulty, unable to pinpoint why.

  Coralis wrapped his hands around Henry’s. “The blood of the First People runs strong in your veins.”

  “First People?” Henry had never heard the term before.

  “Those you call Native Americans—Navajo, to be precise. This is their home, and you can sense that.”

  Henry had to admit, he did feel at home in this glorious land of color and majesty. It surpassed anything his imagination could create on its own.

  Brianna had silently crept next to Henry. “We belong here, don’t we, Henry?”

  “Do you feel it, too?”

  “I feel something different,” she said. “It’s a good feeling, but it’s kind of scary, too. It’s like I don’t know who I am.”

  Henry smiled but refrained from saying You’re a hedgehog. Instead, he said what he felt. “Do you see how beautiful the sky is? I think you’re a part of it, Brianna. And every time I see a sky this color, I’m going to think of you.”

  She blushed, bringing a light flush of lavender to her face, and curled onto his lap.

  Coralis knew when to stop. He had not witnessed a moment like this in a very long time. Not just the bonding of two children, but the bonding of a team. A family.

  Coralis had thought he had stopped growing many years ago. But with each turn of the train’s wheels, he felt the hard shell in which he had encased himself begin to crack and crumble.

  He turned away from the children and pulled out a worn photograph from his coat pocket, the image now distorted from many creases. Love cracks, Gretchen would call them. A loved photo was carried, handled, and abused with affection. This one was a grainy image of a young boy, eleven or twelve years old—he’d forgotten exactly how old. Randall had finally settled into a comfortable routine at the castle. He had just given life to Willoughby and the look on his face was a priceless mix of wonder and pride. A smile couldn’t stretch any wider.

  Coralis often thought back to his first encounter with the boy …

  His trip to London had been unexpected. He had heard from a gem collector about a rare find and was set to enter the premises to negotiate a price when a small voice spoke from a nearby alley.

  “I wouldn’t go in there, sir.” A pale, thin boy with unruly pitch-black hair showed himself but stayed to the shadows, where only Coralis could see him. Used to being accosted by the street urchins of London, Coralis was ready to move along when the boy did the most unusual thing. He wiggled both ears simultaneously.

  “What’s that you’re doing, young man?” he asked, suddenly curious.

  “Getting your attention, sir. And it worked.” The boy flashed a perfect smile of triumph.

  “And why shouldn’t I go in there?”

  The smile disappeared so quickly it might have been mistaken for an illusion. “He’s a fraud, sir. Has a couple-a goons. He’ll take your pounds and lay you up in the alley like the rest of ’em.”

  “And did you warn the rest of them?”

  “Course not, sir. They wasn’t you.”

  “And I’m special, am I?”

  “Oh, yes, sir! All gold around the edges!”

  And that stopped Coralis in his tracks. The young boy was speaking about his aura. Only a person with extended age, experience, wisdom, and valor achieved a golden aura. And it took a very special person to be able to see it. “What is your name, son?”

  “Randall Elliott Hawthorne at your service, sir.”

  “Well, Randall, for starters, you can drop the act. You’re no more a street urchin than I am an opera singer.”

  “Whew! Thanks for that. Do you know how hard it is to play that role?”

  Coralis smiled. “Why don’t we go for a walk and you can tell me all about yourself.” For the next several hours, Randall talked, hardly taking a breath. He was ten years old—in an orphanage for the past two after his parents died in a freak accident while searching for something in the Himalayas.

  “Some la-di-da thing,” he said sadly.

  “What were their names?” asked Coralis.

  “Evelyn and George Hawthorne, ‘last of the great explorers.’ That was Dad’s big joke. Guess the joke was on him.”

  “Would you like to come live with me in a Romanian castle, Randall?”

  He did, of course. But there were two things Coralis never shared with the boy—or with anyone.

  First, he’d known Evelyn and George. They were on a mission to Shangri-la when they’d met their untimely deaths in an avalanche.

  Second, he adopted Randall.

  Coralis stood suddenly, excusing himself as he left the cabin. There was something he needed to do—for himself, for his family. He quickly passed from car to car, seeking the end of the train. Then he laughed at himself when he came face-to-face with the wall that was the rear of the train. In his absentminded state, he momentarily forgot he was not on a train of yesteryear, which would have had a caboose—an open-ended car at the tail end where one could stand to see the tracks behind them.

  He reversed his steps and came to the connection between the sleeper cars and the crew’s quarters. Wrapping his long coat tightly to his body, he willed himself to become unseen. Though the space between the cars was totally enclosed, he tapped his wand against the side to create an opening that closed as soon as he stepped through. Lithely gripping the side of the train, he climbed a ladder and sat on the edge of the roof. Unperturbed by the force of the wind, he crushed a unique crystal in his palm and began to chant an ancient spell.

  And somewhere in another country, in the stifling-hot trunk of a battered car, a family member in the form of a falcon heard him.

  The average body heat of a bird is higher than that of a human. But there is a limit to the amount of heat it can tolerate. To regulate its internal temperature, a bird will resort to openmouthed breathing or panting, or it can hold its wings out away from its body in an attempt to cool down. Being tightly bound and gagged and shoved in a sack, Randall could do neither.

  He was approaching his limit. Twice he had faded to the edge of unconsciousness. Both times he managed to force himself back to a drowsy state of awareness. He could not afford to miss any vital piece of information.

  He had given up cursing at himself for allowing the brief lapse in concentration that placed him in this dire predicament. Instead, he embraced it as fortuitous. He could not have gathered the details of his ca
ptors’ heinous plans if all he had done was follow them from a lofty altitude.

  But the dangerous combination of extreme heat and lack of oxygen was causing him to lose his grip on reality. To cross the plane from reality to hallucination would be disastrous.

  Through the Urania Wand, he had foreseen the ruins—the aftermath of some horrendous calamity. The nightmarish future that would come to pass if he did not succeed in stopping it. These were the thoughts that motivated him.

  He firmly believed in everything the Wandmakers’ Guild stood for. His only desire was to see mankind into a better future and to thwart the evil that tried to do otherwise.

  Coralis.

  Randall loved the old man dearly, but was constantly frustrated by his lack of attention to the world around him. The final straw had been when he refused to believe in Randall’s discovery of the evil that was about to unfold. He knew he had to take drastic action to wake Coralis from his malaise.

  It was no accident when he transformed into a falcon. It was no accident when he located Henry and forced a connection between the old man and the boy. He could only hope that Coralis had followed through.

  His feathers ruffled at the thought of Coralis digging in his heels and wrapping himself within the safe confines of his castle in ignorant bliss. He became agitated with anger and felt pressure building in his brain.

  Coralis!

  “Hello, Randall.” The old man’s voice sounded faintly in his head. He thrashed violently, fearing hallucinations that could compromise his mission. No!

  “Calm down, boy!” He stopped, suddenly still as a statue. Would a hallucination answer him? Did the old man anger him so much that he now invaded his subconscious?

  I am not hallucinating. Randall decided to play along. If this was what it took to keep him awake, then he had nothing to lose.

  “Hello, old man,” he silently spoke through his thoughts. “Long time, no see.”

  “Still a disrespectful lad, I see.”

  “I find it hard to respect a dream.”

  “This is not a dream and we have no time for idle chatter.” And with that admonishment, Randall understood. It was indeed the voice of Coralis. He must be using an ancient art to communicate with his thoughts.