The Wizard's Apprentice

by Janice Ayre

Chapter Four

  Brookfield Farm

  Their new friends and the little cottage was soon far behind as Zebulon set off down the road with long swift strides. Brock had to almost run to keep up with him. Once they settled into an even pace, the boy began to steal sidelong glances at this strange character who had now become so much part of his life. Brock wondered what the day held for him and how far they would have to travel.

  Shortly, as if anticipating Brock's questions, Zebulon said. "We haven't far to go today." He then lapsed once more into silence.

  Brock had many questions he would like to ask Zebulon but the still silence of the wizard was something not to be lightly broken. This, Brock understood with an instinct that surprised him. He spent the journey working to keep up with the fast and tireless pace of his companion.

  It was late morning by the time they came to a farm. Above the wide gate a sign announced in large writing that it was Brookfield Farm. Brock was curious to know why they had come to this place, but lacked the courage to ask.

  Brock started as Zebulon broke the many hours of quiet. "Before we enter, I need to instruct you in some things. While we see humans as very different from ourselves, they do not normally see the differences as they lack our more developed perception. It is best, no more, it is important they think we are human. Do not do anything to make them believe otherwise."

  On observing Brock's questioning look, Zebulon continued. "Most humans are wary or even hostile towards the elves because they are suspicious of those that are different from them. For our purpose to be served we need to avoid those complications. Do you understand this?"

  Brock found all the humans he had met so far to be rough, but then he was used to elvan companionship. He couldn't see how humans could fail to know that he was an elf.

  "We are so different, they will know. We look different, our manners are different. How can we fool them?" Brock asked.

  "As I've already said they are not as discerning as we are. Elves can distinguish differences much more readily," explained Zebulon. I will also use a minor spell so as to confuse them even more."

  "Then we don't have to worry," said Brock with a false confidence because he still didn't know what their purpose was.

  "Spells can be broken, young lad. Don't forget that," replied Zebulon.

  They passed through the gate and followed a winding track, made by the bearing of the ground from frequent traffic of people, horses and carts. The owner's dwelling was a large homestead, at least by the standards of most of the houses in the nearby village. The house was surrounded by trees providing a cool envelope for the house, that to Brock, after hours of walking, looked most welcoming. At a distance from the main house there were sheds and what looked like the workers' quarters. From the layout and constructions, it could be seen that the owner and his family regarded themselves as superior to the farm hands.

  They found the owner of the farm sitting on his verandah sipping a drink and enjoying the cooling breeze. He was not a big man, but full of confidence and comfortable in his success. He eyed the strangers with sharp inquisitive eyes.

  Once more Zebulon introduced Brock as his son. "Good day to you Ambrose. My name is Zeb and this is my son Brock. We have heard you are looking for some more workers and we are interested in filling those positions." As he said this, he made an almost inappreciable movement of his hand.

  Ambrose stood up and walked towards them, at the same time appraising the big man who stood before him. "I can see you are a strong man. I could certainly do with the likes of you on my farm." He then turned his attention to Brock and then with a questioning look once more regarded Zebulon.

  "You need not be concerned about the lad. He may be young but he is as strong as a horse," said Zebulon in answer to the unspoken question. Brock, who had not been paying much attention, gave a start at the word horse and noticed that the corners of Zebulon's mouth turn up slightly as he spoke.

  "Right, it's settled then," said Ambrose, rubbing his hands as if he was well satisfied with the morning's work. "I'll show you to your quarters and then we'll arrange for the maids to give you some food while we discuss your duties and your wages."

  He led the way to one of the huts. The hut was empty except for two bunks, a small crude table and two chairs. The rough wooden floor was bare. One narrow window supplied a mega supplement to the light from the equally narrow doorway. Zebulon had to turn side on and duck his head to fit through. However, he seemed satisfied with the arrangement. He was relieved that he and Brock didn't have to share with any of the other workers.

  Life on the farm settled into a regular pattern and days turned into weeks and weeks into months. Although Brock and Zebulon shared the same sleeping hut and usually sat together at meals, there was little exchange between them.

  Brock didn't like farm work, but he wasn't particularly fond of any work. His work was lighter than Zebulon's and the other men, but still distasteful to him. He fed the pigs. The sight and smell of their slops quite dampened his appetite. He was sure the pigs would have wanted better, given the choice. Brock cleaned their pens and the stalls of the horses; two jobs Brock, with his highly developed sense of smell, found most offensive. He enjoyed some of the jobs. He felt a closeness to the horses and enjoyed brushing them down and feeding them hay in the evenings. He loved the softness of their noses and would often talk to them as he settled them into their stalls. It was one such evening that he met Ambrose's daughter Amelia.

  "You love horses too," said the young girl. It was a statement not a question.

  Brock took an instant liking to Amelia even though she was a human girl. She was open and friendly and had a refinement not common amongst her kind. With her curly blond hair and rosy complexion, she reminded him a little of Yelena. After that meeting it became a common practice for them to meet in the stables at the end of the day. It was the highlight of Brock's day and he felt keen disappointment when something prevented Amelia from coming.

  On days when all work was done, the two young people would go riding. At first Brock's horseman skills were poor and his misadventures were an amusement to Amelia. But if he hurt himself she was full of concern and sympathy because she was a kind and thoughtful person. Brock enjoyed going riding as well as Amelia's company. He loved the feel of the powerful beast beneath him and he learned quickly to guide it to do his bidding, and to stay firmly on its back.

  With the wind blowing through their hair, the young ones would ride full gallop over the hills of the farm. Invariably they would end up at the clear crystal stream that ran through the corner of Ambrose's property. There they would sit on the soft green grass and talk or just sit and dream. With the tall mountains as a backdrop to the green rolling hills on which they sat, Brock could almost feel that he was back home. Sometimes they would see Zebulon walking along the river bank. He would wave but never stopped to speak to them.

  At night Brock would go straight to bed after the evening meal. First it was from exhaustion from the unfamiliar work but later it was because there was little else to do. He had no desire to join in with the men as they drank their ale and told jokes that were not funny. He found their rough, loud ways jarring.

  Zebulon also did not enter into any of the men's society in the evenings, preferring to go to his sleeping quarters and take out a book to study diligently by the dim light. When all was quiet he would take two objects from a pouch and place a smaller device within another object made into a frame of silver and gold design. Once it was positioned he would hold it in front of him and stare at it.

  For hours he would sit there. His breathing would be so slow and deep that it was hardly perceivable. To an onlooker he would have appeared as a statue had it not been for a slight movement of his lips as they formed strange words in hushed tones. After a time the object would emit a glow, sometimes a soft blue and sometimes a golden or red glow. When this occurred, Zebulon would stop his chanting and gaze in silence at the object. When the light ceased, he w
ould put the devices back in the pouch and go to bed.

  During the day, Zebulon would do his work with commitment. Ambrose was well pleased with him because he was dependable and also the strongest of all his men. Zebulon’s companions found him strange, in that he kept to himself and spent only the hours of work and meals with them. But as he was so strong and did his share or sometimes even more of his share of the work, none of them had any desire to trouble him because of his differences. They did not perceive his true physical differences. While they saw his muscles expand the fabric of his thin shirt to almost breaking point, they did not see the fineness of his features, the clearness of his eyes and the power within, or the sensitivity of his mouth and the many subtle expressions that played at the corners. This was no ordinary working man, but while they felt something of the power of his personality, they did not understand why.

  The maids who prepared and served the meals for the men were more perceptive but they knew not why they found him better than his co-workers, other than he treated them with a courtesy uncommon in their experiences. His aloofness did not encourage them to befriend him so they satisfied themselves with whispers, giggles and blushes, and tried to give him and Brock the better servings at meal times.

  For a long time after their arrival at the farm, Brock would suffer acute homesickness. He missed his parents and his friends. As he became stronger and accustomed to the work he would find that he did not fall asleep quickly. There was little he could do in the evenings and he would often lie on his lumpy cot, thinking of all the delightful things he would do in the evening if he was at home. Sometimes he would watch Zebulon with his magic devices and wonder what they were for. He could never get up enough courage to ask the wizard and reasoned that Zebulon would tell him in time.

  It was when they had been many months on the farm that Brock's patience failed him. He had had a bad week. Amelia had been away and Brock felt very lonely. To make things worse, the regular cook was away and one of the girls took her place. The meals, not good at any time, were decidedly worse. Even the other workers complained.

  On this particular evening, when Brock felt at his lowest point, the problem of the poor meals exploded into greater discontent. The meal served was completely inedible, being burned and tough. The men swore and became violent, throwing bowls of food around and abusing the hapless girl who had cooked. All the girls were in tears. Zebulon rose quietly from the table and Brock followed him. He walked off in the direction of the stream.

  Feeling hungry and desperately lonely, Brock decided to use the opportunity to talk with Zebulon.

  As he caught up with Zebulon he asked. "How much longer must we be here?"

  "Not long now, " he replied.

  They walked on in silence but something was troubling Brock and his restlessness was noticed by Zebulon.

  "Something else you want to ask?"

  "No," replied Brock. There was, but he didn't know how to approach Zebulon without incurring his anger. Amelia had fed his vanity by her compliments. She had told him that he was not like other boys; his manners were nicer and he was much better looking. She had told him this with simplicity and honesty so Brock knew she meant it. At first he thought she may have guessed the truth about him but further remarks dispelled that concern. She just really liked him and enjoyed his company.

  Brock’s agitation finally brought him to a decision. He needed to ask what was on his mind.

  "Why haven't you taught me anything?" he blurted out.

  Instead of being angered by the question, Zebulon appeared amused. His mouth turned up at the corners. "You don't think you have been taught anything?"

  "No," Brock responded sharply.

  "You have been taught from the night you left with me. If you have learned nothing, the fault is with you." Zebulon felt rather than saw Brock's puzzlement in the dim light so he continued. "Lesson’s are all around you. The experience you have will teach you if you will look, listen and understand."

  "But..." began Brock, "I am your apprentice. I thought you would be teaching me something."

  "You mean, like magic?"

  "Yes."

  Zebulon's eyebrows rose. "Why the sudden interest?"

  Brock had no intention of telling the wizard that he wanted to impress Amelia. He would only laugh at him and probably refuse to teach him anything. Instead he said the next thing that came into his head.

  "Only a few elves in my village know magic and that is only rudimentary at the best. It will be expected that I will have some knowledge and skill of magic after being apprentice to the great wizard Zebulon."

  "Is that what they call me?" Zebulon threw back his head and gave a deep hearty laugh.

  Brock had not meant to flatter Zebulon but from habit had used the familiar term of villagers when they spoke of the wizard. He was thankful that at least the wizard was in good humour.

  Becoming serious again, Zebulon said. "If this is what you want, then we will begin lessons."

  "When?" asked Brock.

  "Now. But you will have to remain committed to the task. One thing that is not magic about magic is that it doesn't happen without effort. First, I will teach you how you can move a small rock."

  "A stone!" exclaimed Brock. He spoke without thinking, but he really had hoped for something more impressive, more spectacular.

  "What did you have in mind?" Zebulon asked in amusement. It was a question he didn't expect answered, so he continued. " Rocks are one of the better things to begin with because they have elements similar to our own and the magic scholar usually is able to master a relationship quickly with them. From first learning this simple skill the student can then progress to greater achievements. The properties of rocks can be used in many ways. Some have more powers than others but when that strength is understood can be used to build greater magic skills. Do not scoff at this seemingly simple task and you will eventually be rewarded."

  As a means of demonstration Zebulon focused his attention on a rock and sent it bouncing over the ground, ending its journey with a plop into the water.

  "Remember one thing. Never use magic for idle purposes. It is a skill to be appreciated but never abused."

  That evening Brock was given the directions and words to make the spell. Zebulon was a patient teacher but Brock struggled because of his weakness in giving the task full concentration.

  “Just keep practising,” was Zebulon's advice.