by Jane M. R.
“Nonsense! My granddaughter’s future husband is now part of this family and I will have you stay like family. I will wake Charles and have him make up a bed for you. Your secret is safe with me.” She winks at me, and I like her immensely.
“Oh, grandmother, he can’t!” Me and grandma both look at Brine. “He’s… he’s already paid the hotel for tonight and tomorrow.”
I hear it in her tone and I can’t disagree with her. She’s not marrying me, so having me closer for longer is a very bad idea. Especially since I think she’s picked up on that if a few things were changed, it wouldn’t be Jaicom marrying her in a month.
“Oh, what a shame! You, Brinella Frondaren, would get fifteen spankings if I was strong enough to hold you down. Charles may never be able to travel again and I can’t leave him alone so I would never have met Jaicom had you not brought him along and since you would be pregnant shortly after your wedding –”
“Grandma!”
“ – you wouldn’t have been able to travel for some time and either one or both of us might have been dead before we got to meet him. And here you bring him along but keep him selfishly to yourself and rob this good righteous woman the chance to meet our newest member of our family. You should be ashamed and you might consider going to the priest tomorrow to ask for a remission of your sins.”
Brine tucks into her robe and lowers her head, looking thoroughly scolded even despite I am not Jaicom and we are not getting married. I hope neither of them notice my stupid grin.
Grandma turns to me with a smile. “Jaicom dear, I suppose it is too late to cancel your reservation at the hotel for tonight, but they will refund you for tomorrow. If not, then I will pay you for the hotel and you will join us for dinner and stay the night.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Because nothing she said was a suggestion. I could never say no to my grandmother, either.
She pats my cheek. “You are such a sweet boy. Brine has done well in choosing you. Though, I can’t say the same about your choice.” She shoots Brine another scathing look who has yet to look up from her deep blush I can see in the dark.
“I will be sure to scold her good and solid in a month’s time –” I did it! I made her blush deeper! “But for tonight I must bid her and thee farewell.” Shoot. I slipped again. “Goodnight Miss and Misses Frondaren.” I replace my hat and turn to stride victoriously off the lawn when grandma catches my arm.
“Now now, propriety is still a virgin yet. Don’t be embarrassed to give her a goodnight kiss just because an old woman is watching. I know you’ve been doing it already.”
If only grandma was right. Even now and just for show I’m not the tyrant to steal the kiss meant for the real Jaicom she’s going to marry. Grandma is insisting and finally Brine stands, not meeting my eyes as we cross the distance to each other. I see the fear in her eyes and I try to communicate back that she’ll be alright. I suck her into an embrace she accepts hesitantly and brush my lips bellow her ear. Despite the briefness, I feel the danger thunder between us. We release.
Grandma makes clucking noises with her tongue. “Propriety. Queen Victoria be bloody damned.”
“Grandma!”
Grandma smiles at me. “Have a good night young son. We’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”
“Yew shall.” I tip my hat and I walk off the lawn.
OOO
I rather think I enjoyed assisting grandma to embarrass Brine. It quite possibly could become my new favorite thing to do. I’m whistling some archaic tune I remember hearing from a bard at the inn my father and I stopped at from our travels back from Manchester. I walk down the street beneath the magicked lamps. It’s not cold out but I still should have thought to buy a blanket while shops were still open. I still forget I now have the option to be warm when I want.
I find a suitable spot of ground in the trees encompassing Castle Park and, looking about to make sure no one is spying on me, I mummer the spell and fire barks to life in the pile of wood I’ve gathered. The ocean is nearby. I feel the wetness hushing under the fibers of my shirt. No matter. I’m not going to sleep well anyway.
The sticks I chose for my fire are very small, but ten feet across from me is a branch as thick as my arm. Unashamed, I summon the branch into my hand with a few words, though I do snap it in half manually. I’ve got to prove to the Fae I’m not totally magic dependent.
My fire purrs and, spelling my hand, I mindlessly start fingering the flames, watching them curl and slip around my knuckles. An orange glow against the trees beyond my camp on the edge of the river is accompanied by shadows dancing and some musical instruments that are foreign to me.
The distraction is nice. I listen to the careless freedom I wish I had. The music tapers off and the shadows still. I hear a man’s voice speaking in an elaborate manner but I can’t hear what he is saying. Next I see something that has me jumping to my feet.
Steadying my glance in that direction, I keep watching. Sure enough I see fire appear above the bushes and it has wings. And a tail. And four legs. It’s catching fire to the leaves but hands and blankets are slapping everywhere to put them out. Children are laughing and adults are admiring and I’m stomping over with the vengeance of nineteen slain wizards.
I enter their camp without any sort of announcement, which turns out to be a huge offense because the laughter quiets and the Black Magician’s fire-formed dragon sputters into ash.
Dirty children stare at me with some light of curiosity while the adults reserve their looks into hostile glances. And though I am still new to this society, I am aware that my manner of dress is more gentleman than theirs which gives me the sensation of a horse going to pasture with cows and they know it. And even though the garish clothing of the man whom I suspect to be the magician could rival a court jester having been dipped in three pots of dye, I’m still the one out of place and not invited in their circle. Nineteen wizards tell me I don’t care.
“Art ye the magician here?” I ask, unafraid to point directly at him.
“Magician?” He laughs nervously. “No, friend. Why do you ask?”
“I saw thy magic with the fire.”
His glance shoots across the assembly gathered in a half circle on the other side of the fire. A baby begins to hiccup to which the mother pats its back.
The magician reaches a hand to his bearded jawline, reminding me with some revulsion that I used to look like that just two weeks ago. Bangles jingle on both arms with the movement. My amulet is a rather thick piece so I hope he does not see it pressing against the back of my waistcoat.
“Why don’t you sit down with us? Share our meal. I’ll entertain you.”
“I dost nary want to be entertained. Ye dost…” I clench my fists to force myself to slow down. “Yew put other people in danger with yewor magic.”
“Dangers? No one is in danger here. It’s just a bit of fun. If you are worried then you may take yourself out of this camp just like you entered, except that you are invited to leave.”
“Art ye aware that magicians like yew caused friends and families of mine to be slain by the church who preach against magic? And here ye art throwing it about like flowers on a bride. Ye art an abomination and a curse and I hopeth the church finds thee and drives a pike through thy skull.”
The anger of nineteen wizards is too much for my mortal body. I’m shaking and my breath comes in hitches. The problem, though, is I know this magician isn’t the only one. They play with magic because it’ “entertaining” and sometimes useful. Even if I drive a tree branch through his chest to end his life before the church catches on and goes on yet another hunt for wizards, it would solve my rage but not the problem. I couldn’t kill him anyway. Fae spells get really picky when it comes to killing things with magic.
“Your loved ones have died because of magic?” the magician says, folding his arms and causing the bells around his bare ankles to chime. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. The church hasn’t been on a magic hunting rampage for…” He sta
rts to count on his fingers. Gypsies don’t know how to count.
“Three hundred twenty-four years,” I say for him. “And nineteen out of twenty wizards.”
“Hold up, lad! You’re pulling all this anger from that far back? Bloody hell, I don’t even remember my ancestors back that far. The church’s magic hunting is lost in antique obscurity, like the Knights Templar and bathing naked was of the devil. No, wait, wait. I know what’s chaffing your britches… you are an amateur magician and you are jealous that you can’t compare to my skill so instead of asking to apprentice me, you’ve thundered into my show to shame me –” He stops speaking rather abruptly as soon as the ladle in the pot above the fire is relocated into my hand.
“Nineteen out of twenty wizards,” I bit. “I be last the one.”
Despite my short magic display, the man pushes out a laugh. “You may think you are the last Fae Wizard, but the church confirmed they are all dead. Trust me, I’ve had hopes that I might have come from those honorable bloodlines myself. I know how you feel. It’s hard wanting to be better at magic but are stopped by the wiles of the demon you’ve communed. But we do the best we can, don’t we?”
“I be not a magician. I be the last wizard.”
“And I am the Pope, and by my decree, I bless thee cleansed of thy sins so you may now leave this camp in peace.”
I’m going to get my clothes dirty and Brine is going to have questions but I have to take care of this. This careless insult shames the very legends this man is trying to mimic. And it’s putting me further in danger.
I throw my wooden ladle into the dirt, stirring up a buzzing of voices who are still sitting about in my presence. I remove my jacket the tailor called a frock coat and drape it over the back of a chair nearby. Reminded of a story from the bible, I focus on one stick piled next to the fire and I relocate it over to the ground beside my boot.
Hushed whispers hiss behind me. I can’t transform the stick into a snake like Moses because all things transformed must follow a viable pathway from the one form to the other, which I could do but I don’t have time to think about what that pathway would be.
Instead, speaking the Fae language quietly to myself, the stick begins to bend and curve. I’m able to speak the words to produce two round spots on the one end, and a split where flickers in and out a woody tongue. I don’t know how to transform sounds out of it, so it is silent in its slither toward the magician who is only smiling as if just amused.
“Your demon plays well with you.”
“Tis nary a demon.”
The magician causes a flag of flame to leap from the camp’s fire and land on my stick. It continues to slither about until it crumples to ash.
“What are you trying to play at?” the magician asks. “That your demon is better than mine? That you have some special claim to a different branch of magic that supersedes me?”
“I be the last Fae Wizard.” So saying, I let my eyes slide into gold, pointing at them. “Surely ye knoweth of this mark which declares a Fae Wizard?”
“Gold eyes, eh?” The magician hides his face behind his hands. He drops his hands and both of his eyes have turned gold. “I can do that trick too! You are just as worthless as I am.” The magician, uttering what sounds like Latin and using too many hand movements, points at the fire and throws his hand high in the air. With it goes an arch of flame which spreads out wings, a neck, and four legs.
It is small, but the demon-infused fire dragon zooms toward me. “That’s how you prove they are anything but wizards,” my father had said, who also warned that plenty of people would pretend to be wizards so people would pay them for the services only wizards provided. “They always try to hurt you to prove themselves.”
Knowing a little about Devil Magic from my father’s lessons since he was wise to know there would come a time when I might have to duel a Black Magician, I am aware that the demons recruited for the magician can get particular over one sort of object. And from that object is where the demon shows itself, whether infusing himself into it or throwing it about. Essentially, Black Magicians are extremely limited in their show.
The water from the open barrel within my visual shoots out and collides with the fire dragon. The fire extinguishes and my water splatters on those standing too close. People are getting up and backing away to safety; behind trees, their wagons, but their curious heads still watch us.
Frustration conquers the magician’s jaw where he clenches. Sweat beads on his brow from all his furious hand movements and concentration where I have yet to move, hands clasped in front of me.
He starts stomping with his feet and his hands dart out in front of him. His murmuring turns to shouts and with an explosion of spittle, he causes three knives from the table to sling-shot at me.
I relocate the knives skyward, and let them fall. The magician has to bound out of the way before he’s stabbed. He thrashes at me with a hostile gaze, looking all about at what his demon might touch next even though he is panting and out of breath, as if every spell is physically exerting.
“We hath proven naught,” I say. “Except that ye art tired. If ye can make thyself fly to the tops of the trees, I shall concede to believe I am just a worthless magician and I shalt leave upon thy camp with my most humble of failures.”
Now the magician just wants to prove that some seventeen or eighteen-year-old man has not bested him at magic, because the magician sucks in too much air and doubles over and I think he’s having massive bodily and bowel issues. But then I hear him sputtering Latin and I concede to watch and wait.
Everyone else too, moving out of their places of hiding to watch a little closer.
The furious chanting and odd body angles goes on for about three minutes so by the end of it the magician’s voice is hoarse. Finally, his body begins to rise. According to my father, the magicians can only go as high as the demon can lift them. Because, just like the snake in the Garden of Eden, demons are cursed to never leave the ground. Magicians also have to worry about their demons getting bored and dropping them.
The magician gets about eight feet up and then stops. He stands upright in the air and spreads out his arms. “Ha ha! Humble yourself, magician. And I think some compensation is due for your rudeness to taint my name and company.”
I make a big show of looking at him, and then looking to the tops of the trees which is still fifteen feet above his head. “Ye must nary hath heard me correctly… I sayeth the tops of the trees.”
“You won’t be able to make it this high so save yourself from injury because no one here will fetch a doctor.” He’s sweating. I can see the rivulets rush down his bronze cheeks and scruffy black jawline. His body begins to lower. The last three feet and he drops suddenly, though he catches himself with an act as if he meant to do it.
The illusion branch of Fae magic is really my favorite because, though substance-less and therefor useless, it looks so damn cool. Well, I take that back. It’s not entirely useless, as long as you don’t let on to anyone that it is only an illusion.
So, because I feel like fancying myself an angel at the moment, especially since I am dueling with a Black Magician’s demon, I illusion a pair of wings unfurling from between my shoulders. Big wings. Why not?
One of the rules for Fae Magic is you must have the object in question in your visual. Illusion is not that way, since it is impossible to harm anyone with it save it be a Black Magician’s pride.
The gypsies are already gasping in awe, but I cause the wings to glow as fervently as the moon above us anyway, and speaking the words to relocate my big toe on my left foot to the leaf I have focused on, I begin to rise to my desired location.
Once I have secured my position on the specified leaf, I look down upon my assembly. I can almost see my reflection in their wide eyes.
This would be the part where I fly away triumphantly like Icarus, but it is super hard to pin point an invisible spot in the air of which to locate oneself, so I lower myself gracefully, flourishi
ng with a bow upon my landing where I’m covered in applauses. My wings fizzle away.
“Aiden, yer’ve been replaced,” barks an elder woman who comes to stand next to me. I picture her as the camp’s doyenne. “Better find something else useful to earn yer stay.” She looks at me with a motherly smile I miss so much. “We can’t pay you much, but we’d love to keep you around if you’ll except whatever we can offer you.”
“No no, I can nary stay.” Typical of me, I do things without thinking about the future of those actions. “I really shouldst hath left well alone. I be sorry for intruding. Forgive me. I shall be leaving.”
She latches onto my arm. “At least spend the night with us. Was that your lonely campfire over there?”
“Tis.”
“Yes… you must stay with us and explain why you do better magic and wear gentleman’s cloths.”
The lure of company is tempting. I’ll set spells about me as I sleep so I don’t get robbed during the night. I can’t see how gypsies have changed much in three hundred years.
OOO
I’ve already had dinner, but the community stew bubbling above the fire adds warmth to my belly as I lounge inside one of the covered wagons. The magician has found humble association with me who sits nearby with the doyenne, subdued by all the answers to his questions I gave him. There are very few people I trust with my secret. One of those people being a Black Magician who is also an enemy of the church. And I just have a weak spot for grandmothers who feed me.
“I don’t know if I can believe you,” the magician says. I’ve laid my amulet outside my shirt to help root him to the possibility that everything I’ve said is true. “There is no magic to make anyone live that long.”