“What?” said Merdyn uncomfortably.
“You don’t have to pull that rubbish with me.”
“I speaketh no ‘rubbish’, child! How dare thee? I am Merdyn the Wild, the finest—”
“… warlock who ever liveth, blah blah blah, yeah yeah. I know a defence mechanism when I see one,” said Rose. “I practically invented them.”
“A whaty-what what?” asked Merdyn.
“You pretend you don’t care so you never get hurt. Except it doesn’t work, does it? Because you still feel hurt. In here.” Rose pointed to her heart. “She must have meant a lot to you, to want to carve her face. It’s very beautiful.”
Merdyn spoke slowly. “Her name was Evanhart. She is … was a very powerful and good witch. A heart the size of Albion1 and a brain the size of a mountain ox. There WAS a time when I thought we could marry, have younglings. But our paths did divergeth …”
“Why?” asked Rose.
“Zounds! Thou asketh a lot of questions!” Merdyn snapped. But his eyes softened into sadness again as he stared into the distance. “If thou must know, a great and terrible war did cometh. The King ordered every man to join the fight. Evanhart did beggeth me not to go. She said wars change people. How right she was.” He swallowed. “Something did happeneth. Something unspeakable. And it was then I found out who I really was. Not a wizard, not a family man, but a warlock. Destined for greatness yes, but not goodness.”
“What happened?’ asked Rose breathlessly.
Merdyn frowned. “What aspect of ‘unspeakable’ do thou not comprehendeth?”
Rose was undeterred. She had plenty of other questions. “What was it like then, in the Dark Ages? It must have been very different from now.”
“Ha!” Merdyn snorted. “’Tis like comparing flower and fowl. The air here, it stinketh. There is no nature. When I am from, yes, there was turmoil and war. But we did believeth everything was one: the trees, the birds, the grass beneath our feet. All was connected, from one edge of this great flat earth to the other.”
Rose felt she ought to pick him up on the ‘flat earth’ thing, but now maybe wasn’t the time. It made her think, though. There had to be so much that Merdyn didn’t know. That the earth was round for a start. The Big Bang. E=MC squared.
Suddenly, Rose had a brilliant idea. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of this before? “Merdyn, we should go to the library tomorrow!” she said. “They’ve got loads of old history books there. Maybe you could find out what happened to Evanhart?”
“Yes, child!” Merdyn looked excited now. “Thou could look me up. Then thou will see how famous I once was!”
“Yes! And maybe we’ll even find out how to get you back home. I’ll meet you at the church near my school at three-thirty.”
“Right. What be three-thirty?” Merdyn asked.
Wow, hanging out with someone from the Dark Ages was going to be hard work. “Sort of halfway between lunch and dinner time?” said Rose.
“Ah. When the sun passes over the yard arm?”
“Er … if you prefer that, yes.”
“I’ll be there.” Merdyn frowned. “But tell me, why not meet at thy school?”
Rose blushed. “Oh, it’s just, well – to modern eyes you look like … someone who has fallen on hard times …”
“You mean a mumblecrust?” demanded Merdyn. “I look to you like a toothless beggar?”
“Just a little bit, yeah,” admitted Rose.
“Well, I would hide THEE away if thou were in MY time!” Merdyn barked defensively. “I mean, look at thee! Thy bizarre clothing made from scratchless wool. Thy fuzzy hair. The way thou speaketh. People would think I was friends with a rock elf!”
Rose didn’t know what a rock elf was, but she recognised an insult when she heard one and it suddenly reminded her too much of school. She tried to stop it, but her eyes filled with tears.
“You’re not the only one who’s had a bad day, you know,” she said. “You might have been in a medieval war, but I’ve had an audition from hell go viral on YouTube. I’ll … I’ll see you tomorrow.” She jumped up and rushed back into the house, slamming the door on her way in.
BANG.
Merdyn the Wild, the greatest warlock who has ever lived, knew he had been mean. When would he learn? Here he was, fifteen hundred years in the future, all alone in a strange land, and he’d just managed to insult the only person who had shown him an inch of kindness. How Evanhart would have disapproved. He looked at her image in the stone once more and sighed.
Merdyn didst hide his love away,
oh, how the girl was right!
He didst regret it sore today,
with all his warlock might.
Note
1 An old name for the island of Great Britain. Merdyn’s not literally saying her heart was that big, because that would be ridiculous. But she was obviously very nice.
“I … I … I just don’t knoweth what happened. Perchance the pages did sticketh together?” Jeremiah Jerabo was jabbering in front of King Paul like a naughty schoolboy before a headmaster.
That’s right, gold star again to you, we’re back in the Dark Ages – although the chapter heading rather gave the game away, so don’t go feeling too clever. After Merdyn had been sucked into the Rivers of Time – as opposed to those of Purgatory – Evanhart began an inquest, and Jerabo was ordered to the Great Room of the King’s castle to explain what had gone wrong.
The King’s home wasn’t quite as grand a castle as you might have seen on school outings. Those wouldn’t be built until 1200 or so. Early castles were a crude mixture of stone and wood, glued together with mud, hay and horse poo. Nevertheless, the Great Room was decorated with huge tapestries depicting the great battles that King Paul had won, and there were gold goblets and silver ornaments everywhere so, yeah, it still looked pretty Great.
The King was sitting on his throne, feeling increasingly exasperated. Evanhart was pacing the stone floor, shooting angry looks like daggers from her grey eyes at the flailing Jerabo. His coiffured golden hair, slicked into a point with candlewax, was annoying her more than ever.
“Ah yes, see?” Jerabo said as he held up his black and gold spellbook. “The pages WERE stuck together! LOOK! Wax, perchance? Thou knoweth how wax can be. It sticketh terribly.”
“Can’t we just open the Rivers of Time again and bring him back?” asked the King. He had no REAL desire to bring Merdyn back, but he hated to see his only daughter so upset.
“The Rivers of Time are just that, Father,” said Evanhart. “They floweth through the centuries like water. There is no knowing where Merdyn did landeth. One hundred, two hundred years from now? A millenia? Forward or backward.” Evanhart gasped. “What if he did goeth backward? To the dangerous time of the sabre-tooth tiger?”
“Well, lucky for him if he did,” said Jerabo. The King and Evanhart glared at him. “I’m just saying. Magnificent beast, the sabre-tooth,” Jerabo spluttered on. “Until we did wipeth them out. We must remember to conserve our native species, do thou not thinketh …?”
“So, thee see, Father,” Evanhart turned her back on the rambling wizard, “we could enter the Rivers of Time with magic. We have Jerabo’s spellbook, after all. But then, where would we get out? It’s like asking where a grain of sand did landeth on the shore. So … let us put all our most wondrous scientists to this task instead. Perhaps they knoweth how to locate Merdyn.”
“Very well,” said the King tiredly. “Thou will see to this, Jerabo.”
“With respect, sire, why me?” said Jerabo. “If ‘twere up to me, I’d leave the skelpie-limmer1 whensoever the Rivers did spitteth him out. Evanhart appears to be the one who has the most affection for Merdyn. Let her find the vagabond.”
The King and Evanhart looked shocked.
“I beg thy pardon, Jerabo?” asked Evanhart. “What art thou insinuating?”
“Yes, speak Jerabo! What meaneth thee by ‘affection’?’” said the King.
“Oh, I’
m sorry,” Jerabo simpered. “I did assumeth Evanhart had some sort of feelings for Merdyn? I did presumeth this is why she has refused to marry anyone else? Including myself. The Lord knoweth, I’ve asked her enough times. I …” Then he actually thrust a hand to his forehead. If there had been soap operas in the Dark Ages, Jeremiah Jerabo would have made a great actor in one. “Oh! What am I saying? Hush thy mouth, Jerabo! Hush now!”
The King looked sternly at the wizard, then at his daughter, whose cheeks had turned a deep shade of crimson.
“Would thou excuseth us, Jerabo?” said the King. “I wisheth an audience in private with my daughter.”
Jerabo bowed, turned on his heels and left the Great Room, a smirk playing across his thin lips.
Once alone, the King turned to Evanhart, being careful to subtract the anger from his voice. “Is it true, Evanhart? Do thou have feelings for Merdyn the Wild?”
“Oh, Father,” Evanhart replied. “Thou do not knoweth him as I do.”
“The man is a criminal!” the King bellowed angrily.
“He was not always that way,” cried Evanhart. “Before the war he was charming, he did maketh me laugh so. Lord knows, we needeth to laugh in these dark times!”
Outside the Great Room, Jerabo had cast an eavesdropping spell (made from eavesdrops, a flower similar to snowdrops but more ear-shaped) and was listening through the large wooden door.
“He most likely casteth a spell on thee!” reasoned the King from within. “Did he giveth thee a love potion?”
“No!” cried Evanhart, before smiling at a memory. “Although we madeth a love potion together once. We madeth a sparrow fall in love with a hedgehog. ’Twas most amusing.”
“I findeth nothing amusing about this entire farrago2!” BOOMED the King. “Thou thinkest I will ever let thee marry Merdyn the Wild? On my birthday last year, he did turneth my wine into parsnip soup!”
Evanhart’s smile dropped. “But—”
“Silence!” bellowed the King. “I have had enough of thy nonsense! Thou will do two things from this day forward. Number one: thou must cease thy pleading for Merdyn’s return. He is where he is and let time have him. And number two: thou will be married before this year is out.”
On the other side of the door the eavesdropping Jerabo’s ears were aflame.
The King’s demand left Evanhart speechless. She gathered her breath before asking,
“Married? But … to whom, Father?”
“Whomsoever thou liketh,” said the King. “There are plenty of eligible gentlemen around. How about Jerabo? I knoweth he can be a little annoying at times. But he is a loyal servant. And, more importantly, of noble blood. Why, his father owneth half of Wessex! Whereas Merdyn was an orphan. His parents could have been mumblecrusts, for all I know.”
Behind the door Jerabo did a little jig.
“Marry Jerabo? Never!” thundered Evanhart. She clenched her fist so hard that the stone floor cracked beneath her. She WAS a witch, after all.
“Thou will do as thy father ordereth you!” thundered the King in response. “I have humoured thee for too long, daughter! A woman thy age should be married and having children. Thou must produce an heir to the throne! After all …” At this, the King became quiet. “I will not live for ever. One day thou will be Queen. Do thou not wanteth our family name to carry on? To ring throughout the ages?”
Evanhart was angry at her father, but the thought of him dying one day made her pause. She paced up and down the room a few times in silence as he watched.
“Very well, Father. I will marry Jerabo if it pleaseth thee,” she said eventually, to the King’s, and I’m sure your, amazement. Behind the door, Jerabo was cock-a-hoop. He performed several fist pumps as if he were a footballer who’d just scored a goal. Even the cleaning lady, who was sweeping up at the far end of the Great Room, dropped her brush in astonishment.
“However, I have one binding condition …” Evanhart continued.
“Which is?” asked the King, with trepidation.
“That we find Merdyn the Wild and bring him safely home.”
Behind the door Jerabo’s face turned to thunder. Why must that wretched Merdyn be a constant nail in my shoe? he thought. Surely the King would not agree to this?
The King, however, knew better than to argue with his daughter. It was a hard bargain, but it was a bargain all the same.
When the King called him back into the room and told him of the pact that had been reached, of course, Jerabo pretended he was hearing it for the first time.
“Thy Highness, I would be honoured, nay flattered, to join thy prestigious family,” he said, with all the oiliness of a snake dipped in oil.
“Very well,” said the King. “Here is thy Royal Engagement Ring.” And he handed over a gold ring set with a ruby, which Jerabo eagerly slid on to his finger. Evanhart shuddered, but held her tongue.
“Just one teeny thing, sire. A mere shrew, if I may,” Jeremiah piped, smarmily. “What if we findeth Merdyn but he be dead, not alive? Just for clarity’s sake, thou understandeth. After all, who’s to say he didn’t endeth up in the time of the great crocodiles?” (I think he means dinosaurs, don’t you?) “Or in some future warring country?”
At this point, as a curious reader, you may be wondering why he would ask such a question. And you would be right to wonder. What was Jeremiah Jerabo up to?
The King looked to Evanhart for help.
“Dead or alive, I shall marry,” Evanhart said, swallowing her pride. “Just find him.”
That was precisely the answer Jerabo wished to hear. And so, as he was wont to do, he started a speech. “Dear King Paul, I cannot help but feel responsible for what has happened to Merdyn the Wild—”
“Thou ART totally responsible!” Evanhart cut in.
“Well, yes. ’Twas what I was saying,” agreed Jerabo. “So, given that fact, I do solemnly swear that if we tracketh Merdyn down, I shall PERSONALLY go through the Rivers of Time to retrieve the poor fellow myself, where’er he may be! I am sure this can be done much quicker than thou imagines.”
“In that case,” declared the King, “alert the finest scientists in the land. We have a warlock to find!”
Evanhart holds out hope
for her rescue wish,
but why does Jerabo seem
slippery as a fish?
Notes
1 From old Scots dialect, skelpie means someone who deserves to be smacked and limmer means thief or scoundrel. If you ask me, Jerabo is talking more about himself than Merdyn – but that’s just my opinion.
2 A word still used a lot today, meaning a confused mixture of things. It originated from Latin words meaning mixed-up grains. Loaf of farrago bread, anyone?
With all the excitement of the night before, Rose had almost forgotten about her disastrous audition the previous afternoon. But as she walked into school the next day, she was met with cries of “Hey, Beyoncé!” and “Show us some moves!” There were roars of laughter from every pupil she passed.
Be calm, Rose, she told herself throughout the day. They’ll soon be grovelling at your feet for an autograph. When you’re a famous singer, thanks to Merdyn’s singing spell, the CATs will be clamouring for a selfie with you as your bodyguards beat them away with sticks.
She woke with a jolt, some unsightly drool dribbling from her mouth. She’d been having her revenge fantasy during her last class of the day: history.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you, Rose?” the teacher was saying. The class tittered.
The teacher in question was called Mr Watson – or Mr Onetone, as he was nicknamed, because he only ever spoke in one tone of voice, somewhere around an E-flat. He’d been in the middle of talking about an upcoming field trip when he’d spotted Rose dozing off.
“So, to recap, the end-of-term field trip this year will be to … Stonehenge.” Mr Onetone waited for some show of excitement from his pupils, but it was not forthcoming. Undeterred, he pulled down the window blinds and started a slideshow.
The class groaned. A slideshow? Every pupil’s worst nightmare! Mr Onetone, however, was made of stone himself, so carried on regardless.
“Thought to date from around 3000 BC, Stonehenge is a marvel of Bronze Age architecture,” he droned. “Many aspects of Stonehenge, such as such as how and why it was built, remain subject to debate. We can have some fun with that once we’re there …”
CLICK. Another slide appeared, this one showing two stone pillars.
“For example, these pillars would have had a stone on top,’ Mr Onetone said. “But it vanished. Where did it go? How did it go? The druids believed that shortly after it disappeared, somewhere around the sixth century, the gods became so angry that they cursed the earth by beginning to take away its magic. This heralded the end of ancient mysticism and the dawn of modern cynicism.”
Catrina, Andrea and Tamsin exchanged looks and twirled their fingers in circles around their temples, signalling that they thought Mr Onetone was cuckoo.
“And looking around the room, I’d say the druids were bang on,” Mr Onetone added with a sigh.
Suddenly the class was interrupted by a loud BANG BANG BANG! Someone was thumping on the window from outside. Rose glanced at the clock on the wall. 3.25pm. Surely this wasn’t …
Her heart started beating faster as Mr Onetone jogged to the window and lifted the blinds. The class let out a collective gasp. There, waving his arms around like a loony, was a strange-looking dirtily dressed man in a battered pointy hat – or Merdyn, to Rose, you and me.
“There thou art!” he shouted when he saw Rose through the window.
Mr Onetone turned to Rose. “Rose Falvey? Do you know this man?”
“Never saw him before in my life,” she said automatically.
“ROSE! It is I!” yelled Merdyn. “I have been waiting for thee for three thumbs1!”
The class looked at Rose.
“Maybe I do know him a bit,” she admitted.
Thankfully, the bell rang for the end of the day. Rose’s classmates giggled and whispered to each other as they filed out. This was all Rose needed. Merdyn may have been the greatest warlock who ever liveth, and perhaps all who knew him had bowed down before him, but in modern Britain, he looked like a complete weirdo.
The Wizard In My Shed Page 6