Hapenny Magick

by Jennifer Carson

  Mae stroked the squirrel’s bushy tail. “I’m glad to see you, too, Trina.”

  Aletta put her arm around Mae and gave her a squeeze. “I went to get the ointment for Callum. I knew he would need it after the battle to treat those who had been scratched by the trolls. Do you want to come see if he needs any help?”

  Mae nodded and let Aletta lead her away. Some of the villagers patted her back as she passed through. Others chanted her name. The seeds of dandelions floated into the air like confetti. Trina sat straight and tall on her shoulder, one hand gripping a lock of hair, the other waving to the crowd. On top of the rise, more hapennies gathered with their children in tow. Leif’s momma searched the crowd. Her eyes lit up as her gaze landed on Mr. Burrbridge, with Reed on his shoulder and Leif by his side. She gathered her skirts and raced down the hill.

  “What’s going to happen now, Aletta?” Mae asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  Mae stopped and fiddled with the corners of her apron. “Who will take care of the farm?”

  “Well, I suppose Leif’s dad could take the pigs, and we could find someone to adopt the chickens.” Aletta gathered Mae’s petite hands in hers. “You are the rightful Protector of the Wedge, Maewyn. There is still much you need to learn.”

  “Come, Maewyn!” Remy settled on a tree branch above Callum. He cocked his head, black eyes glinting in the sun. The raven glided down into the grass as Mae jogged to the tree.

  Kneeling, she cupped her hand and smoothed the unruly feathers on the bird’s head.

  Mist grew and hovered around the bird. Mae backed away in surprise as feathers molted away, littering the grass. The mist thickened, forming the shape of a tiny man. He was barely two heads taller than Mae. His beard was so long it folded upon itself on the ground before him.

  “Take care of all those hobgoblins running free in the forest,” Remington Gythal said. “You have a responsibility to care for them now that you’ve brought them to life.”

  “Hobgoblins?” Callum raised an eyebrow.

  Mae blushed. “I will.”

  “I know you will,” the Great Protector said. “I’m so sorry, Maewyn, for the loss of your mother. Had I been a stronger wizard…”

  “No, please, Remy,” Mae interrupted. She swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat and wondered if the mention of her mother would always feel like this. “Your spells kept the Wedge safe for these many years. My mother was grateful for that. We all are.”

  Remington Gythal surveyed the gathered villagers. “Fear no more, dear hapennies. The trolls are gone, and the Wedge is in good hands.” The wind whistled across the field, pulling the wizard’s ghostly image with it.

  The crowd gasped and murmured, confused. Mae turned to the crowd. “When the Great Protector, Remington Gythal, put the protective charms on the bridge, he didn’t know there was a troll still in the Wedge. She’s been trapped here for six years.”

  “Gelbane!” Widow Bridgepath stabbed the earth with her shovel. “I always had a bad feeling about that woman.” She shook her head. “I tried to warn your mother, but her heart held too much compassion for her own good.”

  “That’s right,” Mae said. “Gelbane was a troll. And she hid herself among us with a magickal skin, a leyna charm, which made her appear to be just another hapenny. She hid the damage she was causing to the pillars with a leyna charm, too. That’s why we didn’t know until it was almost too late.”

  “And that was the ghost of Gythal?” Leif stepped to the front of the crowd.

  Aletta shook her head. “Not a ghost, more like a spirit or an energy.”

  Callum stepped up behind Mae and rested his hands on her shoulders. “He wasn’t a wizard anymore. He used the last of his magick to change his spirit into the form of a raven in his one hundred twentieth year.” Callum held up a hand to quiet the crowd. “If it is all right with the villagers of the Wedge, in the absence of her mother and father, Aletta and I would like to become Maewyn’s guardians.”

  The crowd murmured excitedly. Mr. Burrbridge pushed his way forward. “Wizards don’t live in the Wedge.”

  Widow Bridgepath pushed her way to the front of the crowd. “As the eldest hapenny, I can attest to the fact that it is not customary for humans, especially wizards, to live amongst us.”

  Mae’s shoulders drooped. She hid her face behind Callum’s trousers. She didn’t want the villagers to see the tears forming in her eyes. To save her home only to be forced to leave it. It didn’t seem fair.

  “But,” Widow Bridgepath continued, “under the circumstances, I believe we should allow it. Do the other town elders agree?”

  Mae held her breath. Callum’s warm hand squeezed her shoulder.

  Widow Bridgepath cleared her throat. “Callum, Aletta, you are welcome to stay in the Wedge until Mae is grown and has truly learned in the art of magick. It would be best for all concerned.”

  Hearty voices full of joy filled the meadow. Mae nodded to Widow Bridgepath and smiled at the celebrating hapennies, until she saw Mr. Underknoll. His gaze was distant as he gently stroked the hand of the sleeping newlyborn in his arms. Ms. Gnarlroot accompanied him as he approached the wizards.

  Ms. Gnarlroot’s smile wavered. “I fear we’ve lost Mabel’s mother to the trolls.”

  “Your fears are correct, Ms. Gnarlroot.” Aletta placed a comforting hand on Mr. Underknoll’s arm.

  “I’m sorry for that and for you, Mae,” Mr. Underknoll said. “I loved my wife more than any other hapenny in the Wedge, except this little one.” He swayed from foot to foot, rocking Mabel. His lower lip trembled and he tried to hold back tears, but they slipped down his cheeks like water from a spigot.

  “The whole village talked about how terrible Gelbane was,” Ms. Gnarlroot said. “I don’t know why no one stepped in to help you. I suppose we were all scared of her, but you, you faced your fear and you saved our village. We are all greatly indebted to you, Maewyn.”

  “I had a lot of help.” Mae smoothed an unruly curl sticking up from the baby’s tangle of red hair. “Can I ask a favor of you? I know you’ll take good care of her, Mr. Underknoll, but…” Mae stroked the pudgy little fingers sticking out from the soft pink dress sleeves. “Sing to her, and never forget to tell her how much her mother loved her.”

  “I will, Maewyn, don’t you worry.” Mr. Underknoll swiped another tear from his cheek.

  “And one more thing?” Mae added. “If strange things start happening at your house, don’t blame it on Mabel, but the magick that is within her.”

  Mr. Underknoll and Ms. Gnarlroot nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

  Mae’s stomach rumbled. She put her hand across her belly to quiet the complaining.

  “I think you’ve missed breakfast again.” Callum laughed and grabbed Mae’s hand. He winked at Aletta. “Wands at the ready?”

  The wizards lifted their wands. With a wave things appeared: decorated tables piled high with bread, cheese, and all manner of fruits and vegetables. Platters of steaming meat appeared, followed by pitchers full of dark purple wedgeberry rum. Colorful banners snapped in the breeze. Flowers bloomed in the field. Callum grabbed a glass from the table and filled it with wedgeberry rum. The crowd quieted. “For Serena Bridgepost and Mother Underknoll. May their memories never fade. And for our little wizard, the first hapenny to reclaim the ancient magick within all of you.”

  The crowd roared its approval.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Aletta said. She filled a glass, and the two wizards clinked rims before downing the sweet wine.

  Over the bridge shuffled the hobgoblins Mae had brought to life in the woods. Their polka dotted hats bobbed and weaved. They carried musical instruments, which they strummed or blew or banged as they approached. Lively music filled hill and dale.

  Leif grabbed Mae’s hand, pulling her into a circle of dancing hapennies. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you properly, Mae.”

  Mae took two steps to the right and twirled under Leif’s
arm. “Properly? For what?”

  “For saving my life.” Leif hopped to the left, pulling Mae with him. “Twice.”

  “You would’ve done the same for me. Best friends do that kind of thing for each other.”

  Mae stumbled and Leif pulled her close. “I love you, Mae. You’re my best friend…maybe even more.”

  Mae blushed.

  “If you are going to be the next Protector’s best friend, and maybe even more,” Callum said, interrupting their dance, “you’ll need to learn some magick.”

  “But—but I don’t have any magick,” Leif said.

  “That’s not true,” Mae said. “It was your raven carving that made my magick strong enough to protect the village.”

  Leif gave Mae a worried look as Callum put his arm around him, leading Leif away from the dancing crowd. “A totem maker. Now that is some powerful magick, indeed.”

  Author’s Note

  Sometimes stories don’t behave the way you expect them too. Hapenny Magick is a clear example of a story misbehaving. What began as a picture book about the circle of life, titled The White Raven, demanded to be more. From this 700-word manuscript grew a story about a community pulling together.

  My friend, and fellow fairy artist, Linda Ravenscroft (www.lindaravenscroft.com), drew some sketches based on my faerie dolls to illustrate The White Raven, and I have included them with her permission. I hope you enjoy reading the short story that inspired Hapenny Magick, a tale about how even the smallest voice can create change.

  The White Raven

  by Jennifer Carson

  One dark night in a long-ago time, there was a small boy named Kieran. By moonlight he stumbled through the woods, following a white raven. After many hours the bird settled on the smoking chimney of a cottage nestled deep in the forest.

  When Kieran poked his head in through the open door, a sweet odor tickled his nose. His belly grumbled as he watched a wizard stir something in a pot hanging over the fire. Kieran wiped his nose with a tattered sleeve. “Please, sir, a crust of bread?”

  The wizard turned from the hearth and smiled at the boy. “I can do better than that,” he said. The wizard approached and pulled a white feather from the boy’s tangled hair. Twirling it between his fingers, the wizard led Kieran to a small meadow just beyond the cottage. He plucked kernels from a few stalks of wheat and tucked them in Kieran’s hand, followed by a splash of water from the creek.

  “My name is Gannon,” the wizard said. He tugged on the braided tail of his beard and held it aloft, like a wand. “And now, my young friend, now is the right time for a spell. A sweetened loaf is the prize. Grains of flour quickly rise!” A steaming loaf of bread appeared in Kieran’s hand. “Would you like to learn magic?”

  With his mouth full, Kieran nodded, his eyes wide with excitement.

  “Very well, we’ll start your lessons as soon as you are dressed!”

  “But I am dressed,” Kieran protested.

  Gannon’s sapphire eyes twinkled with amusement. “You aren’t dressed properly for a wizard’s apprentice.”

  Kieran wrapped his arms around himself as he followed Gannon back into the cottage. “Then what shall I wear?”

  The wizard bent to his worktable, found some snippets of yarn, and stuffed them into his fist. “Say, ‘Mend and patch, cut and sew; new clothes I need, from head to toe!’”

  Kieran repeated the spell and Gannon threw the snippets of yarn into the air. The yarn transformed into a pointed hat and a wizard’s robe. Kieran pulled the hat on and pushed his arms into the sleeves.

  “It’s a bit big,” Gannon said. “But you will grow into it soon enough.”

  As the weeks went by, Kieran and the old wizard became fast friends. Gannon taught the boy many spells and potions and tricks. Kieran could tell the stories whispered by the old oak trees and cross the river without getting wet—most of the time. He learned how to change mushrooms into drinking cups and flowers into doves—usually. As Kieran grew, he joined Gannon on his visits to the nearest village. They soothed the wounded with healing potions and astonished the children with their tricks. As the years went by, Kieran grew to be a great and noble wizard.

  One day, as the old wizard rested against a tree in the meadow, Kieran knelt beside him. Old age had made Gannon frail. Kieran swept a spider’s web from the tree and spun it into a thread with his fingers. He whispered a magic spell. “Wisps of spider’s silky web, weave together for his bed.”

  Kieran shook out the spun thread until it was large enough to tuck around the old wizard. Gannon awoke and placed his winkled hand on Kieran’s. “Many years ago, I gave you home and hearth and taught you the ways of magic. In return, you filled my life with wonder and joy. I have one last spell I’d like to teach you.”

  Gannon pulled a white feather from his robe and twirled it between his fingers before settling it in Kieran’s hand. He picked up the braided tail of his beard. “A bird of flight, the color of light. To ease your loneliness…”

  As the wizard closed his eyes to the world, the feather hovered above. Slowly it transformed into a pure white raven and perched on Kieran’s outstretched arm. Eyes as blue as sapphires peered at Kieran, with the same wizened gaze that he had often received from his friend. Kieran gave a tearful chuckle, knowing the kind spirit of the old wizard was near.

  Many years passed in the cottage of Kieran and his white raven, but one winter night when the moon was full and bright, the raven flew deep into the forest. He did not return the next dawn, or at noon, or at supper. Just as Kieran began to worry that he would never see his friend again, a knock sounded at the cottage door. When Kieran turned the latch, a small and ragged child stood in the shadow of the doorway.

  “Please, sir,” the little boy begged. “Could you spare a crust of bread?”

  With gentle hands, Kieran pulled a white feather from the boy’s curly locks. Twirling it between his fingers, he smiled. “I can do better than that.”

  Illustrations by Linda Ravenscroft

  www.lindaravenscroft.com

  About the illustrator

  Patricia Ann Lewis-MacDougall started drawing as soon as she could hold a pencil and filled every blank spot in her mother’s cook books by the age of three. She now tells stories with her love of drawing and has illustrated children’s books and created storyboards for television animation for shows such as Little Bear and Franklin the Turtle. Pat Ann lives in Stoney Creek, Ontario. Visit her online at:

  www.pat-ann.com

  About the Author

  Jennifer Carson lives in New Hampshire with her husband, four sons and many furred and feathered friends. She grew up on a steady diet of Muppet movies and Renaissance faires and would occasionally be caught reading under the blankets with a flashlight. Besides telling tales, Jennifer likes to create fantasy creatures and characters and publishes her own sewing patterns. Her artwork and patterns can be seen online at:

  www.thedragoncharmer.com