The Wicked Wand (7 page)

FORGETFUL WITCH

“Golden Shoe. Please ... continue ... about ... about the ... the,” I struggled to find the words.

“Golden Shoe!” helped Kar, jabbing me a good one in the ribs.

“Golden Shoe,” said the wand with a wooden sigh. “Years passed. Bars of years. The witch hurried here, rushed there, ever on the whim of the crystal ball. The monster troll Gorge continued to grow and his thick night blue coat of hair slowly whitened as the years and the years and the years went by. Whenever the witch were away or frozen, I strained to move, to lift, to float. I strained to catch hold of the merest wisp of my elusive bolt magic. But elusive it remained when I were not in the witch's bony grasp. And when she gripped me, she used me as a plaything, a toy! She would take the Golden Shoe from the window sill where she kept it, place it on the floor, and step her purple and black striped stockinged foot into it. Then she would search for me. She had no special elegant place where she kept me. No. She flung me away to land where I would when she were finished with me. Sometimes she had to find me in one of the boring troll's basements. That was the worst and took the longest. Be it not understandable that my dream were to work some pleasing mischief on her? When she wore that Shoe, what did she do? Boring things, deadly dull. Playful to her, boring to me. She enjoyed rearranging her furniture or redesigning her cottage. Change the black licorice lattice to red, then back to black. Not to orange or green, something new, but black to red, red to black. Boring. She changed cookie shingles to candy brittle shingles. Boring. Nuts replace chocolate chips. Chips replace nuts. Boring. And worse, worse ever than that, she almost never took me anywhere with her. Only a few times. She never forgot to bring the ugly Golden Shoe. She should have brought me more places instead of almost always leaving me trapped in the cottage or in one of the boring basements of the boring troll where she sometimes liked to conjure boring cakes to share. But, oh, true, some days, some glorious few days in the cottage, she forgot to wear the Golden Shoe! Then were I unshackled. My bolt magic were mine! I rushed every time to throw a bolt before she might remember the Shoe. I transformed her door to tar. Ha! Yes. She dropped me and didn't pick me up for a month. It were worth it. Another time, the best time, the troll were there, and I turned him into a patch of tar. Ha! Mischief! Fun! ... But wrong! So wrong! I vow so never to ...”

“I have bird ... heard your cow ... vow,” I interrupted. “Continue. Golden Glue ... Shoe.”

“I obey commands. Ye be the Harick,” said the wand while performing another of its tilting bows. “No mischief now. The Golden Shoe. There came a time one day when I twitched on my own. Oh, that were glory! I felt it. Practice and practice, I mastered rolling, lifting, floating, but bolt magic yet eluded me. In its place I mastered batting the Golden Shoe off its sill and picking it up and putting it back. It were a part of my mischievous plan. I kept my new skills hidden from the witch and vowed to wait for her next forgetful day, the day when, shoeless, she would pick me up. Then, bolt power activated by her touch, I would change her into a patch of tar! Ha! Then I would scoop up the Golden Shoe and carry it out to the nearest deepest lake and drop it in. I would be free to fly anywhere with my mastered magic and hide away for whatever time it took to capture unaided bolt power and create all manner of mischief, more than just tar, that I could think of.”

The wand, unable for the moment to remain a subdued story-telling wand, lifted and twirled madly around us before settling again on the folds of my blackest purple cloak.

“I apologize, Harick,” said the wand, “but that be a memory what makes me hop.”

“Well, did you glue it ... do it?” I asked.

“Nearly everything of it. So nearly,” sighed the wand, “but not. The troll. The meddlesome troll.”

“What about the bowl ... troll?” I urged. The wand had fallen silent. It needed to be prodded.

“If not for the meddlesome troll,” said the wand in a dreamy wooden musing manner.

THE MEDDLESOME TROLL

“Tell us!” shouted Kar and I in chorus. We exchanged looks and shrugs.

“Meddlesome. I should have waited for him to go visit his friend across the river,” mused the wand, picking up the thread of its story. “I should have, but I didn't. I were too fizzed and surprised when at last one day the witch, who had been sitting and staring into her crystal ball for a tedious boring span of seemingly frozen time, jumped up waving her arms and shouting, ‘Praw Fuh Sigh!' She accidentally kicked me. I rattled off the wall. She bent down and picked me up. The Golden Shoe were still on the sill! Freedom! Mischief! I threw the bolt of magic I had dreamed of throwing, the one I had been saving for this very time. I fell clatter to the floor. Why? Patch of tar! The witch were a patch of tar! My mischief! My own! I wriggled around her and were about to lift and float when the cottage door flew open and there were the monstrous troll. ‘What Praw Fuh Sigh?' he roared. ‘Babba Ja? Babba?' He stared at the patch of tar, a look of horror on his face. True, his face were ever and always a look of horror, but this time it were real and felt. ‘Wand?' He looked at me. I moved not a quiver. Another mistake. He sat down and combed his claws wildly through the hair on the top of his fearsome head. ‘What to do? What to do? What to do?' he repeated and repeated as he combed and combed. Ye plainly see the unhappiness I had caused? I myself could not see it then. I rejoiced in my mischief. But now, oh now, I see how wrong it were. How young I were, and foolish. A lackwit. Thoughtless. Mischief. I hereby apologize for all of the mischief I ever bolted. So wrong. It were so wrong to ...”

“Wrong! It was long ... wrong. Yoss! Past is last ... past. Continue. What happened ... happened ... happened ...,” I said.

“Next!” punctuated Kar.

“The meddlesome troll got a meddlesome idea,” hummed the wand in its wooden way. “He rumbled, ‘Waterwizard.' I heard him. He rumbled, ‘I'll fetch a waterwizard.' Then in the next instant he was up and loping off through the clearing to disappear into the trees. Too late I sprang into action. I flipped up from the floor to the sill, scooped the Golden Shoe and floated out the door. I were determined to dump the Shoe into the deepest lake I could find. Oh, years! Bars and bars of years. How many had crept by since I had been beyond the cottage clearing? Too many. No time for delay. The meddlesome troll had run off to find a waterwizard. I couldn't catch him. My floating were too slow. I should have rolled over and touched his foot when I had the chance. Then I could have unleashed a bolt and tarred him, too. I had learned to roll and move and float on my own. I knew in time that I would be able to master my bolts of magic without having to be in contact with any creature of any sort. I should have snuck up to touch him and bolt him while he were gnashing his teeth and wildly combing his hair. Young I were. Lackwit. Too slow to react. Too blinded by the single desire to rid myself of the Golden Shoe. It were a mistake. Another of my lackwit mistakes. I should have tarred him when I had the chance. Then I could have taken the Golden Shoe on a lazy flight, a peaceful flight, and dropped the nuisance into some watery depths. Left alone and at peace, peacefully safe, I would have learned to capture my bolt magic on my own. Oh, then the mischief I would have ... But of course it were lucky that I were too slow! Lucky! A blessing! No more mischief for me. I be a simple wand now, wise with age and ready to serve. Ye notice that I be leaving nothing out of my story. I be telling true, mischief and all. My mischievous ways have been mended. Ye heard my vow. It were ...”

“I heard it! Continue! The Shoe!” I snapped, not making a single word mistake.

“Good, Bek,” commented Kar.

THE SINKING OF THE GOLDEN SHOE

“Yes. The Golden Shoe. I carried it above the trees of the Danken Wood,” resumed the wand. “My destination were Longthin Lake. Why Longthin Lake, ye ask? I will tell ye. For bars and bars of years had the witch's babble fallen upon me. She had shouted and screamed at the crystal ball and at the troll about ‘Praw Fuh Sigh!' this, ‘Praw Fuh Sigh!' that, ‘Praw Fuh Sigh!' and the Falls of Horn, ‘Praw Fuh Sigh!' and the Wide Great Sea, ‘Praw Fuh Sigh!' and Longthin Lake, ‘Praw Fuh Sigh!' and every sort of other place or creature ye could imagine. Longthin Lake sounded ideal, the perfect place to drop the Shoe. Far enough, but not too far. Near enough, but not too near. It marked the southern boundary of hilly Clover. Clover were south of the Greenwilla River. The Greenwilla River were south of the Danken Wood and the witch's cottage. With that knowledge tucked away, I floated south until I rudely learned my limitation. I now confess to ye my limitation. Were I still mischievous, I would hold it hidden from ye. But I won't. I will tell ye. My limitation be ......”

“What?” exploded Kar. The wand's wooden voice had faded to silent.

“My limitation be,” the wand made another effort, “...that I can't fly over water. There. Ye see! I've told ye! No mischief! None!”

“You can't pie ... fly over water?” I asked.

“Then what did you do with the Golden Shoe?” pursued impatient Kar.

“I took a bath with it in the Greenwilla River,” said the wand. “Flying high and mighty were I, lackwit youngling, full proud of my mischievous escape from the cottage. When I passed above the northern bank of the Greenwilla River, I instantly toppled, falling kerplash into the water. The Golden Shoe fell, too, of course, and made a splash of its own. It sank away, carried in the current to a place where as far as I know it still rests today. Ye know nothing else of it, do ye?”

Kar and I shook our heads no.

“Good. What matter? It be not needed. I be tame on my own,” commented the wand with what might be called a satisfied wriggle. “Yes, well, the Golden Shoe sank and drifted away while I myself floated helpless in the current. I bumped into a spit of land and instantly regained movement magic. I rolled along from reeds to grassy bank. I were shocked with surprise. My elusive bolt magic rushed around inside of me. Were it laughing? I thought as much. I trembled to rise. I floated up. I found myself near fields of oats. The current had deposited me a good span west of the Danken Wood. I asked myself questions. What had happened? Were I rid of the Golden Shoe despite my plan being ruined? Should I try to cross the river again? I could not truly believe what had happened to me unless it were repeated. I were lackwitted and young, a common enough combination. So I floated again to the river and fell. It were not unpleasant, but it were annoying and tiresome to await bumping into a clump of gathered logs and to wriggle and roll over them to the shore. Yes, I could float through the air, but no, not above water. Yes, I had learned to move on my own, but no, I could not control the elusive bolt magic inside me. What to do? Slip back into the cottage. The Golden Shoe were gone. Slip back into the cottage unseen. The troll didn't know I could float. The witch didn't know. It were a safe secret. I would slip back into the cottage and assume an innocent motionless pose on the floor. They would never suspect that it were I what stole the Golden Shoe. I would practice patience. I would strain to obtain control of my magic whenever I were left alone. So resolved, I lifted to float and return to the cottage.”

WATERWIZARD, TROLL, WITCH

“Another mistake. I should not have returned to the cottage,” sighed the wand. “I should have found a place to hide where I could have worked on mastering my bolt magic. But I were helpless to resist the pull of innocent mischief. Ye see, I were certain that the witch could not withstand the powerful lure that I were. She had a need to use me. She would pick me up. I knew her. I knew her well, muddled purple creature that she were. The Golden Shoe were gone. She would approach me warily at first. I would obey her wishes and carry out her spells for a goodly while before tossing in a bolt of mischief. She would believe that the mischief were her own clumsy fault. That were my plan. A fine plan. I would gain time to work on acquiring mastery of my magic unaided by any creature's touch. And in addition, I would have time to muse and plot a solution to my passing over water problem. Mistake. Mistake. Big mistake. Such a mistake.”

“Why mistake? What happened?” prodded Kar, notes of annoyance in her voice.

“After I fell in the tricklestream and rolled free into ferns on its cottage side, I floated up the hill and found the cottage well occupied when I drifted low through the clearing,” answered the wand. “I settled under a window and listened. The troll's voice rumbled. He said in eight different ways that I were dangerous. The witch's voice piped up that she would be more careful. She needed her powers to be complete. She needed her wand. I chuckled to myself. I did know her well. At the same time I wondered how she had untarred herself. I wondered no more when I heard the voice of the waterwizard. Briny Brook reasoned that I were not to be trusted without the Golden Shoe. ‘Can ye not locate the wand in your crystal ball?' he asked. The witch answered, ‘It is for Praw Fuh Sigh, not ... bunting ... hunting for lost blondes ... wands.' ‘Whoever stole it is welcome to it!' roared the troll. The day brightened. They had not guessed that I could move on my own. Then the day became drenched in gloom when I heard Briny Brook's next words. ‘It be too mischievous, uncontrollable, without the Golden Shoe. If the Golden Shoe be lost and the wand found, the wand, I say, should be locked away.' The troll roared his approval. The witch said nothing. I silently urged her to plead for her powers to be complete. ‘Yoss,' she said reluctantly, ‘until we grind the glue ... find the Shoe, I agree. But who has it? Where is it?' I were now prepared to slip away and hide. Too late again! Lackwit! I rolled from under the window and lifted to float off through the trees. The meddlesome troll roared, ‘There it goes!' Seen! I were seen! Startled to empty of wit, I floated unthinking to rush away. Downhill and over stream. Tricklestream! I toppled splash and spun a bump into ferns. I flopped free of the water and began to lift. No good. Too late. I were clutched from the air and quickly crammed into a darkness which were, I quickly learned, the waterwizard's pouchbag. I bumped against bottles and amulets. ‘It flies on its cone ... own,' I heard the witch gasp. ‘I told you it was dangerous!' boomed the troll. ‘This be a fresh stream of development. Did ye note how it failed to fly over the tricklestream?' said the far too intelligent waterwizard. I felt the pouchbag swinging along until it were plunked down on a probable table in the probable witch's cottage. There followed a long discussion about what to do with me. The meddlesome troll were for burial. I thanked him and plotted a mischievous revenge. Then! Then revenge, not now. The witch said someone might pick me up. Then she gasped and uttered in a hush, ‘Praw Fuh Sigh.' They all fell silent. What were happening? It were too quiet for too long. Then, finally, Briny Brook spoke. ‘That be clear enough,' he said. ‘Solved. But where exactly be this volcano?' The rumble of the troll chimed in. ‘What's clear enough? I saw only runes. I don't read runes!' he whined. ‘Sabeek orrun,' said the witch. ‘Practice ... patience. The crystal hall ... ball ... says that the ... the orruneries of Orrun Mountain Swallow ... Hollow ... will ride ... guide ... the waterwizard. Yoss! That's it!' I frantically grabbed at the elusive bolt magic inside of me. It taunted me, slipping away to the left, to the right. I were trapped. Something were going to happen. What?”