Feral Magic

by Nicolette Jinks

  A voice boomed from the mists, echoing off the listening walls and walkways, engulfing me in deep, rhythmic words that had all the charm of a circus announcer introducing the audience to the three rings.

  “ ‘Let who you are reflect in all you do, and you will have not one regret of your life.’ Such is a drake’s proverb, and today is a tale about two individuals of opposite walks of life who possibly were the foundation for this proverb. While what they were held them apart, who they were founded a new civilization, a new culture, and a new hope. Without further ado, I present The Farmer and The Widow.”

  The mists receded to show a puppet man hoeing a small garden, a straw-thatched roof painted behind him with a couple of small fields with livestock painted on them; the background moved with bobbing sheep heads, two frolicking calves, and even a cat that walked along the rock fence. The narrator’s voice ebbed over the scene.

  “At a time when the dragons and the humans had nearly killed each other completely, there was a farmer who had lost all his family to the war against the dragons. He did not hate them, though he was afraid. His family had a bargain with a local dragon, promising to deliver every lame or old or ill creature to the bottom of the mountain. In return, the dragon would not take any healthy livestock from the farm.”

  The puppet approached one of the cows painted on the background, and then lead it out of the painting and onto the road. The puppet cow walked with a heavy limp and appeared very skinny and frail. They walked up a trail winding past trees and over a creek, then they stopped at a pasture where the mountain started climbing. The cow remained in the pasture, and the farmer walked back to his house. Lights dimmed, and a spotlight shone on the cow like a moonlit night. Then it brightened again, and the farmer made his way back up to the cow.

  “But the next day, the cow was still there, and same with the day after, and the day after that. The farmer’s reasons are not explained, but he decided to walk the cow up the mountain to the dragon’s lair. Perhaps he was lonely. Perhaps he was concerned something had happened to his dragon, and he would have to make a deal with a new one. Perhaps he was going to see if the dragon had moved on.”

  The puppets walked into the backdrop, and the it became a mountain that emerged from the painting and spilled out, the foothills ending at the toes of the first row of children, who played with the miniature boulders and trees carefully. The cow and farmer stumbled and rested their way up the mountain, coming at last to the mouth of a cave. The side of the mountain became invisible, and the crowd could see the caverns and the curled up form of a dragon deep in the cave. A nervous farmer walked into the darkness, and his lame cow limped after him.

  “Dragon? Dragon? I have a cow for you,” the farmer called, his voice echoing as though he were in a cold, hollow cave. “You haven’t come to get her in days, and she’s very close to dying.”

  The dragon lifted her head, but listlessly, as though she did not care. “I am here,” she said, her voice weak and cloudy.

  The farmer came the rest of the way, he and his cow kicking rocks and pebbles around, dull echoes coming from them. When he saw the dragon, he held still, and his cow fell over.

  “Thank you, farmer,” she said, but did not get up.

  “What is wrong, dragon?”

  “My mate was murdered by those who seek to kill all dragons,” she said. “It has been quite some time since I’ve eaten.”

  “Then, let us eat, for my cow has just died.”

  The narrator’s voice cut in as the two puppets appeared enraptured in lively conversation. “And for his bravery and kindness, the dragon gave him a ring from her hoard, which he used to buy a fatted calf for a meal the next month, and so their relationship grew, each one caring for the other, talking and dining. It is not said how many months this occurred, but it was all too soon when others took notice of their peculiar behavior.”

  The lights dimmed and there were two spotlights, one on the cottage with the farmer, one on the lip of the cave with the dragon. There was a mob of red-faced human puppets wielding swords made from wood and painted silver. One had chainmail armor that looked like it was made from a jewelry making kit, but the children were very enchanted by it.

  “We are here to end the war!” the one in chainmail roared, a very loud voice for such a small puppet, “Do you know of any dragon lairs nearby?”

  “No,” said the farmer.

  “Have you had any stock go missing?”

  “None but the hens the foxes take.”

  The conversation switched over to the dragon’s lair, where two strange dragons were talking to the widow.

  “We are here to ask permission to slay humans in your territory, Madame,” said one.

  “No,” she said.

  The two looked at each other, then said, “Asking you is a formality. Will you help us locate humans, or return to your lair?”

  “I will not allow you to harm them,” she said.

  One of the dragons lurched to attack her, and she fought back. A fierce puppet fight ensued, one in which there seemed to be no strings, no artificial material. They flew, they dove, their necks entwined and their mouths bit. The widow, being smaller and quicker, damaged her opponent’s wing and his friend snarled, calling off the fight with the widow. He went over to his friend and growled back at her, “I will be back very soon.”

  And then, he took hold of his fellow’s bad side and the two flew away very awkwardly into the backdrop.

  “I shall go to the high mountain where the eagle resides,” she said to herself, “and have him change me into a woman so the farmer and I can escape all of this.”

  Back at the cottage, the farmer had a similar idea. “I have heard of a creature on the tall mountain who can perform miracles. Maybe he can change me into a dragon so I can help her when the hunters come—for they will come in time.”

  The narrator once again spoke as the two puppets ascended the mountain in the distance from opposite ends. “And so, they had no knowledge as to the other’s predicament and plan, and they encountered the eagle at different times with their request. To each one, the eagle said, ‘Yes, there are others who wish to transform as well, and you may join them. However, you must keep your eyes closed until the ceremony is over.’ And they both agreed, neither knowing the other was present. It is said that the others who wanted transformation were caterpillars.”

  The backdrop expanded on the mountaintop, where it now became the sole mountain. A giant eagle the half the size of the dragon widow stood at the back, preening and gleaming in the moonlight as the others assembled. A storm boiled in the clouds as the eagle started to glow, causing all the tiny caterpillars, the dragon, and the farmer to glow as well. There was a dragon body forming next to the farmer, and a woman’s body next to the dragon. White, fluttering clusters formed on the ground about them.

  “And the caterpillars gained a second body, a body with white wings. They cast off their worm-like bodies without a second thought, but it was at that moment a flash of lightening illuminated the room, they opened their eyes and each recognized the other. Each tried to anticipate which way the other would go; dragon or human? But when the eagle’s spell finished, neither had decided, and so they embraced both bodies.

  “Ever since, each of us drakes begin as one body and when the time is right, our second form appears to us, and we have the choice to accept one or the other—or both, though it is not an easy task to accomplish.”

  “Huh,” whispered Lilly, almost talking over the narrator’s final comments, “I always wondered how that works.”

  Before I could ask to stick around—I had a sudden urge to discuss something with the puppeteer, though I wasn’t sure what my question was—Lilly yanked the carpet up to the next decks. “It’ll be a madhouse for a good half hour if we don’t beat it now.”

  Nodding, I agreed past a lump in my throat. When she was navigating a tricky intersection of carpets, I leaned over the edge and watched longingly as the set faded and the
puppets answered questions from a young and eager audience. Settling back into the middle of the carpet, I tried and failed to suppress a sigh.

  “Something wrong?” Lilly asked when we came to a stop.

  Bailing off the carpet and onto whatever walkway we were on, I shook my head and said, “No, nothing.”

  Lilly was not convinced, and neither was I.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  My mood was soon shaken off as Lily lead me through more sights of the market, and I was swiftly distracted by the cobbler, the glassblower, the wildflowers, the raw foods deck, and the umbrella merchant. We had moved on to see the man who sold warding stones by the time Mordon decided to join us.

  We saw a musical instrument vendor and Mordon all too cheerfully volunteered me to play a cello that played itself. Lilly laughed, then grew interested in something else and wandered off. Mordon teased me about becoming flustered at the attention the crowd gave me, then grabbed my arm and pulled me somewhere.

  After a bit of weaving between crowds, I demanded, “Where are we going?”

  We slipped a ways from the prying eyes, then I stepped in front of him and jabbed him in the chest. Mordon chuckled to see me being so aggressive, and I worked hard to keep his smile from being contagious.

  “Now can we find some place to talk?” I said sternly at first, then my voice deteriorated into the formations of a laugh. I coughed and straightened up. I wanted to ask him about Death’s Merlot, about why the Lady of the Vase was still imprinted on my mind, and about why the theft bothered me so much and him so little. Yet I could not form the words to ask him, and I gave up.

  He nodded and inclined his head, saying, “We can go back home to talk. It’s getting late.”

  I had to agree with this. “Why doesn’t it appear to have any time change here? The light is the same as when we entered.”

  Mordon lead the way and was at the start of explaining all the doors and different time zones and the sorcerers who generated the original spells when a voice cut us off.

  “Mordon!”

  We turned. Lilly was heaving and waving her arms, diving down at us from a red carpet. “Mordon,” she called again, “Intruder breaking through our boundaries up high! Must go now!”

  He pointed his emerald jeweled-finger and let it tap the tip of my nose. “Stay here with the vendors. I won’t have harm come to you. I will return as soon as I can—and this time, I mean to answer your questions.”

  I mutely agreed. He stepped on the carpet and was gone. I held one elbow as I watched the carpet race around a deck above me, and periodically I saw flashes of red in the far distance. I walked back towards the huddling vendors. Word spread quick here, and vendors were packing their most valued wares, shoving them roughly into boxes that never seemed to fill. Lesser items tumbled on the ground and, unless the vendor had a child to help, they let those goods lie. A few people got on carpets hoisting canes or staffs or wands to go aid Mordon with, sweeping up above all the other decks. I heard a crash echo and debris cascaded past me. I couldn’t see anything from my standpoint, I jittered in place, edging closer to the vendors.

  They kept retreating, carpets flying out of the decks like a buzzing swarm. I was soon abandoned, surrounded by barren boxes and scattered goods. My magic toppled me to the ground as carpets whizzed over my head, one of the tassels catching on my bun and yanking hard. I snatched my hair and found it loose but in place, having acquired a tassel for decoration. I heard wailing from down below, and I peered over the edge once the stream of carpets stopped threatening to take my head off.

  The creature was a work of art, as graceful as she was unusual. Her face was fox-shaped, teal and purple markings about her head and eyes, white fur on her throat, peacock feathers making up a crown on her head. Her body was shaped as a pheasant with bright yellow feathers and black spots for decoration. Her slender wings banked and she angled up to buzz me, sweeping tail feathers brushed my skin as I ducked.

  The walkway was littered with discarded merchandise, and I scooped up some stray trinkets, fumbling with one in particular—a black rock with a letter carved in it. While trying to puzzle out what it did and keep an eye on the creature, I dropped the rock. It bounced twice and came to a rest in the center of the walkway. It lay still for a few seconds, then light shot from the letter and fireworks crackled in the air. The creature shrieked at it and averted its path in a long circle around it.

  I looked at all the different symbols—there seemed to be six or so, and they were helpfully color coordinated. Tossing one of each in a different direction, I singled out the fireworks and put them in my pocket, then cast all of the fogs and mists across the walkway. Within seconds, the entire area was filled with rolling clouds; I reached out to my magic just enough to keep the drafts at bay so they wouldn’t take away my cover. I felt her dive through the air in search of me. The first two times she missed the walkway by inches, but the third time she careened into an overturned cart then rammed into a wall. She shook herself.

  The creature gave a final shriek of frustration, then forgot about me and started to peck at the wall, her mouth striking wooden storage boxes that were sunk into the stone.

  “What’s it looking for?” I asked myself. Mists and green and purple smoke began to fill the walk and float over the open space, changing from the gray and white clouds they used to be. I hoped this did not signify that the enchantment was ending. I frowned and snatched a pole, feeling the ground in front of me to make sure I did not step off the side.

  I waved a purple puff from my face and caught a glimpse of a peacock crown as the creature located an individual box and began to tear into it. A staff fell from above and clattered near the creature. It raised its crown and blinked at it, leaned a long neck forward, and sniffed at it, taking several steps away from her target. I saw past her to the mark on the box, a jagged “G” painted green. It was Griff’s symbol.

  What did Griff have in his storage box that the creature—or rather, that whoever controlled it—wanted so badly? I was more convinced by the second that she should have whatever she was after. Pocketing several more stones I hoped to be fireworks or other startling images, I advanced to the wall slowly and quietly. My stick tapped the wall and I felt around with my hands, and was rewarded with finding Griff’s box. It was locked, and the creature had not done much to damage it yet.

  A head the size of my body crashed into the stone wall me, casting away the green smoke I had been hiding behind. I stared for an instant into clouded eyes, then saw a collar disguised by her feathers. Pouncing on the tail end of the rope collar, I started untying the knots between grasping her feathers and hopping to stay with her thrashing body. I undid the first knot before she swung her head and rammed me into the stone wall. Gasping for breath, I fumbled in my pocket as she pressed me harder. Finding a few round stones, I weakly cast them against her shoulders. She quivered her skin, and the stones tumbled to the ground. My ribs were giving beneath the weight of her crushing skull. I could no longer draw a breath, and my lunged burned.

  The stones shot up in screams, shooting little bees into the air. They buzzed around until they gave a pow and exploded. The creature swirled to meet this new threat, several feathers already flaming with foul-smelling smoke curling towards my nostrils. I put my invisibility ring on and stayed put, trying to catch my breath. I rubbed my citrine ring and pointed to a place down the walk. I wasn’t sure what played back on it—my eyes were closed as I tried to not cough or allow tears to come, but the illusion seemed to work.

  I felt a rustle of wind against my skin as she pounced on the image; I covered my ring before she could reach it. The illusion died, and she stood where it had been, snapping and darting her head through the mists in confusion.

  I slunk closer to her sniffing, spinning form, remembering an entrapment circle Mother taught me years ago. Touching the ground, I unleashed my fey circle around her. It visibly cut through the mist—to my surprise—but she simply cocked her head and looked
at it, realizing she should run only after it had her entirely encircled. She bopped her nose against it, gave a little shriek when it did not give, and hit it harder. This was fey magic, unlike other circles, it grew resilient and strong when magic was used against it. Without magic to feed it, the circle would die soon. My hope had been that she would cast a spell or two, but she seemed to know to headbutt it. I tossed all my firework stones against its side to charge the circle with their magic—assuming it would work.

  The stones lay unmoving for a few seconds as she rammed her head against my circle. Cracks appeared. Then the first stone began sparking and the circle absorbed every spark that hit it and life zipped through it in waves, getting stronger and stronger as more stones exploded in a variety of fireworks.

  The mists were dissipating now, so I touched my magic again to bring the air through so I could see. I frowned at the creature, trying to place her from the book my mother used to read to me as a child. She was a simurgh, a benevolent creature who preferred sunny meadows to stealing from busy marketplaces.