by Jeff Wheeler
“Master Glibone says I’m the best swordsman he ever trained. This was his sword, made from iron tempered to the finest steel. He gave it to me when he sent me to you.”
“And a bow? Are those iron-tipped arrows in your quiver?”
“One is, the rest have bronze points. Iron is difficult to come by. I have a good arm for a spear, but I don’t own one. Master Glibone thought my martial skills would interest you.”
“Hmm. Few warriors are better than Master Glibone in his prime. What were his exact words when he sent you to me?”
“‘If you will not follow and cannot lead, then your best choice is to become a wizard. I know just the wizard to teach you . . .’”
“Walk with me, boy.” Tovenaar glances back and flashes teeth through his gray beard. No more than a few days old, an inflamed wound gapes across his cheek and festers at his eye. Black tissue surrounds the orb, so swollen that the eye cannot open. “I can use an apprentice who understands iron. Winter is on the horizon. These redwood giants shelter a cottage stocked against the winter. We will shelter there while I mend. In the spring, we shall take the high pass over the mountains. Along the way, you will learn an apprentice’s duties, obligations, and the mess you’ve gotten into. Perhaps if you have talent, you may even learn some magic.”
“Mess? I don’t understand.” My fear of the redwoods evaporates. Feeling that I have passed some test, I nod acceptance and follow him among the forest giants. The sun touches the horizon and highlights the recent wound on the wizard’s face. Beyond him, the long shadows cast by the redwoods seem less ominous.
* * *
Outside the cottage, winter rages against the log walls and plasters snow on the single glass window until it no longer rattles. The accumulated snow seals out the fading twilight.
Master Tovenaar insists I bathe once a month even in the winter. Tonight is the night. I comply with no enthusiasm: snow melted by the fireplace makes frigid bathwater. Drying after the bath, I no longer shiver from my brief plunge, but I am not as warm as I want. Eventually, the cold eases its bite within the folds of my sheepskin. Burning logs in the fireplace provide our illumination and toast my bare feet when I extend them.
The wizard paused today’s lesson while I bathed. Now he resumes in a dry monotone.
Bored with today’s recitation, I hardly listen. For weeks, perhaps months, we repeat the rules of magic and the spells to master, but seldom do I get practice with either. Often, I suspect that Master Tovenaar does not care whether I learn magic. Why did he take me as his apprentice?
As is his custom, Master Tovenaar sits on the floor during my last lesson of the day and drops dull metal shards one at a time onto the hearth—not coins, although they sparkle in the firelight. What then? He shuffles the pieces and eyes them as if he expects them to take life. His examination does not impede his dull lecture.
Despite the chill, I peek from the folds of the sheepskin and count twenty polished fragments, each flat with gleaming edges made to interlock except for the straight edges obviously intended for the borders. Are they mystical? What pattern does he see in them?
“Is that a puzzle?” I adjust my sheepskin against the pervasive draft drawn by the chimney.
“Yes. A very difficult puzzle.” His smile is crooked. The gash in his cheek has healed to a slick scar. His beard refuses to grow atop the scar, but his damaged eye now blinks like any healthy eye, and he no longer complains of blurred vision.
“I’m very good with puzzles.” A complicated puzzle is one of the few things that can hold my attention when I am bored. Most things come easily to me. Frankly, a flat puzzle with only twenty pieces does not look that difficult. “What is it when assembled?”
“At the very least, a sphere. Do not avoid my last question. Our lesson for the day is not finished.”
A sphere? Does he intend that answer to confuse me, or is the puzzle truly difficult? How do you build a sphere from a flat puzzle?
The fireplace pops and fills the room with the odor of pine sap.
“Of course, Master. Uh, I forgot the question.”
“Not likely.” Master Tovenaar tilts his head, and his eyes twinkle. Is that pride? “You never forget anything. Now, quote the first rule of magic.”
The magic question is too easy. I memorize and recite most things with little effort. Having no choice, I sigh and answer the question.
“First rule of magic: magic is not free; it has a price. Can I try the puzzle when you are finished?”
Boring, to memorize tedious rules and arcane spells with only occasional practice of their power. However, the puzzle fascinates me. Why does he not trial-fit some pieces? Clearly, the one nearest him and the one at the far right are a match. Can’t he see the congruent edges?
“No, you cannot try the puzzle. Never touch these shards.” Tovenaar does not look up from the puzzle. Neither does he shuffle the pieces for a better view. Peculiar. He usually attacks any problem head on. Now he appears distracted, lost in contemplation. “Attend your lessons.”
“Yes, Master.” Instead, I practice an incantation that will cause a spark to erupt between my fingers when his lecture resumes. I dare not actually invoke fire without the wizard’s permission. The master insists on discipline.
Master Tovenaar pushes the puzzle aside and stares at the flickering embers in the hearth. He drums his fingers on the floor, then pauses for several minutes. “What is the price of magic?”
So we are still not finished for the day, but he’s not watching me. I take a deep breath. “Second rule of magic: the price of magic is that it ages the wizard, the more difficult the magic, the more the wizard ages.”
A tiny flame leaps from my index finger to my thumb. Pleased, I close my hand to hide the afterglow. He doesn’t react to the spark.
“Good boy. Remember that aging is proportional to difficulty, that is why you seldom see young-looking wizards. Rule three?”
“Magic is not permanent. Like all things, it wears away. Aging is directly proportional to difficulty and inversely proportional to the rate of wear. The faster magic wears, the less the wizard ages.”
“Ah, mathematical precision to describe the rule.” He twists his lips into an enigmatic smile. “And what is the constant of proportionality?”
“That depends on the talent, power, and skill of the wizard.”
“Excellent. Put another log on the fire. Rule four?”
“Cold iron reroutes magic to oblivion.” My words form mist in the air when I rise. The coarse wooden floor is icy against my bare feet while I tiptoe to the fire. Clutching the sheepskin around my shoulders, I pick up a split log and position it among the glowing coals. “Moreover, the wizard still ages when his magic is lost to iron. I don’t recall rule five.”
I cannot resist glancing at the puzzle pieces. Did one of them just glow blue and another red?
“Because I gave you no more rules.” Tovenaar looks suspicious of my interest in the shards. He scrapes the loose puzzle pieces into a small purse as if to conceal them from me. “Neither did I give you corollaries or exceptions. Four rules are enough for you now.”
“Yes, Master Tovenaar.” I return to my pallet. Is he annoyed? I have trouble telling.
Tovenaar flicks his hand toward me. Suddenly, I am sleepy. I long for a full stomach so that I might curl up beneath a thick layer of dreams and blankets.
I yawn. “What about supper?”
“I forgot about supper. First, can you argue that using magic to make one’s self younger is a bad choice?”
“Yes, sir, but we did that exercise yesterday. I argued fatal recursion based on rule two, magic ages you. Was my argument flawed?”
“Yes, yes, of course, I remember. The recursion argument was very good.”
“Are you all right, Master Tovenaar?”
“Don’t patronize me, boy. I haven’t gone senile.” A sly, almost malevolent, smile parts his beard. “How old do you think I am?”
“Sir?” I wrin
kle my forehead in deliberation. Had he seen my fingers spark? We haven’t discussed age since our first encounter when he told me I was too old to be his apprentice. Is he suggesting that he is too old to be a master?
“First impression, Eric. Guess my age. Be quick about it.”
“Uh, midfifties. Maybe fifty-six?” I reconsider when he raises an eyebrow. “Fifty-three? Yes, fifty-three.”
“I’m a forty-one-year-old wizard.” Tovenaar’s eyes narrow. “I finished my apprenticeship at your age and became an independent wizard before I was twenty. What does that tell you? Don’t hesitate. What does that tell you about me?”
“You’ve practiced very difficult magic?”
“Aye. That I have. Or perhaps, I’m lying about my age, and I’m really older than forty-one.”
“Sir?”
“Corollary to rule two. It’s better to make something appear magical than to do actual magic. I cannot teach you a more useful lesson than that.”
“Yes, sir.” I’m confused. Making something appear to be magical when it is not sounds like lying. Master Tovenaar does not like for me to lie.
“Did you forget that you are hungry?” Tovenaar points to the larder. “First, supper, and then to sleep. Spring thaw is just a few weeks hence, and that means intense daily practice for you, if we are to meet the dragon, love a princess, and foil the evil wizards.”
“What princess?” Confused and not quite alert, I sit up in my bed. “What dragon?”
“Prepare supper.”
Yes, supper. Suddenly, I’m famished. Quickly rising, I tiptoe across the room and hesitate at the larder. All the dried venison is gone, and the flour long since exhausted. The only items within are the last sack of half-sprouted potatoes and the remnants of the thirty-pound wheel of moldy cheese taken from the root cellar in the adjacent hillside. Hard cheese, sharp, grainy to the tongue. Difficult to slice, but filling. Spring must come soon or we—I—will be forced to hunt again, hunt in the barren winter where the cold wind blisters your face, and your fingers numb when nocking an arrow to the bow.
“You only mentioned an evil wizard before, but no princess or dragon.” I cut two wedges of cheese and return what’s left of the wheel to the larder.
“When an evil wizard is involved, a dragon and a princess are inevitable. Everyone knows that. Cliché circumstances, of course, but I thought you might need more motivation than just evil wizards. Be alert. When you see an evil wizard, he will appear to be a fragile old man. Despite his apparent age, he is not fragile. Ah, well, I may as well confess. One evil wizard who pursues me is my younger brother, and he plots to kill me. . . .”
“Your brother is an evil wizard?” I carry one wedge of cheese to Master Tovenaar and clutch the other inside my sheepskin. I wish for a crust of bread to join it. Even crackers would be welcome. “What evil has your brother done?”
“Evil?” Tovenaar takes the proffered cheese. “My brother? Never mind. Come spring, we follow the pass between two mighty mountains. Even after the thaw, the path is difficult. Can you tell which mountains are evil and which are good?”
“I don’t understand.” Nibbling at the cheese, I return to my pallet. “How can mountains be good or evil? They are just peaks guarding the pass formed between them where they rise from the earth mother.”
“Yes. That is the conundrum.” Tovenaar purses his lips. “By the way, that was an excellent spark you produced earlier. Apply more determination, more focus and you will be able to make larger flames to start a fire or even a fireball to hurl. Add that skill to your magic repertoire, but use it wisely. Throwing fire is difficult magic. You don’t want to age faster than I am. You continue to surprise me with your progress, Eric. I had not expected you to be so adept.”
If he had not expected me to do well as his apprentice, then why had he accepted me? I sniff the sheepskin before snuggling down. Despite repeated washings, the smell of wool wax lingers.
Master Tovenaar picks up the puzzle purse. For a brief moment, the purse glows before he drops it into his knapsack. Did he just secure the purse with a spell? Why? How important is the puzzle? The thought flickers through my mind while the wizard’s enchantment leads me to dreams.
When I awake the next morning, someone has written three words in the window condensation: “Yield the Lens.”
* * *
The last big storm passed only a week ago, but Master Tovenaar claims that spring is here, and so after a very early breakfast, we leave the cabin. With sunrise just beyond the mountains, we strap snowshoes to our boots and shuffle across the snowbound landscape.
Once we climb above the tree line, the frozen tundra sparkles with morning sunlight. When I face the sun, the faint warmth on my cheeks gives respite from the brisk cold.
Although Master Tovenaar fashioned me a warm coat lined with sheepskin, my leather boots remain damp and do not warm my feet. When the wind gusts, a draft up the back of my coat chills me. I flap my arms for warmth and only succeed in loosening my backpack. I stop to adjust the straps.
“Are you sure winter is finished?” While fiddling with my pack, I ask questions more to delay him than for his weather analysis. “This does not feel like spring to me. On the plains, birds come with spring. Where are the flowers and bees? Besides my feet are cold, almost frozen.”
“Don’t exaggerate. Tonight, I’ll teach you to moderate the fire spell to warm your feet.”
Welcome news. I’ve already figured out how to warm my hands with magic, but not my feet. Why is that different? “What about spring?”
“It’s close enough to spring for a Tuesday.”
“For a Tuesday? What does that mean?” Cinching the backpack straps, I increase my pace to catch up to Tovenaar.
“It means that today is Tuesday.” He pauses and takes a deep breath as if the chilled air is elixir. When he exhales, his breath billows and dissipates.
How does he know today is Tuesday? Over the winter, my days settled into a monotonous sameness until I lost track of the proper name of today.
“If it’s Tuesday, how does that make it spring?” I catch up, and he continues the trek toward the mountain pass.
“Close enough to spring. Be precise. Tuesday or not, now must be spring because the time has come for us to go.”
I must look befuddled because he does something he seldom does when speaking in riddles. He elaborates.
“The time to go is now because my brother resumes his pursuit today. Therefore, now must be spring, else how shall we make it through the mountain pass before he catches us?”
“Your brother pursues?” I look back. Miles stretch behind us to the tree line. Nothing moves across the landscape. “I see no one.”
“Full of questions today, Eric? I know my brother Arias pursues because he came to me in a dream last night and warned me that he would follow us today. Of course, he’s in low country where the weather is not as cold.”
“He warned you in a dream? Why would he do that?”
“He’s my brother.”
“I thought he was an evil wizard?”
“Did I say that? Well, maybe just a wicked wizard, but not so much that he would take advantage of me.”
“You said he wanted to kill you. Wouldn’t that be taking advantage?”
“Again, be precise. The wizards who follow us want to kill me and are definitely evil. I don’t know whether my brother still travels with them. I advised him not to trust them. However, I don’t think he would kill me, not on purpose, well, maybe not unless he was very angry.”
I realize my mouth is agape. I close it. Who is this madman that instructs me?
“Look.” Tovenaar points overhead. “Flying high up. A mountain dragon. Already out of hibernation. Indeed, spring must be here.”
* * *
Our evening campfire melts a small circle of snow and reveals ground hard with permafrost. Reasoning that a layer of fluffy snow provides better insulation than frozen earth, I lay my sheepskin atop some freshly fa
llen snow that is too far from the campfire to melt, yet close enough for the comfort of light and warmth on my face. If the snow were deeper, then we would burrow into it to avoid the cold wind. Fortunately, tonight’s wind is only a whisper.
Even though I can now warm my feet using Tovenaar’s spell, I don’t sleep well. Coarse meowing from beyond the firelight keeps me awake.
“What’s that sound?” I ask from my bed.
Tovenaar stirs the last embers of the fire and retreats to his blanket. “Perhaps a mountain dragon, likely the one we saw earlier. They are curious animals.”
“How close?” Darkness limits my vision. “I wish we had a full moon.”
Tovenaar strokes his beard and pulls his blanket up to his neck. “I once knew a stupid wizard who tried to hurry a waxing quarter moon to become a full moon. He died of old age in a matter of minutes. Difficult magic ages you. Very difficult magic will kill you.”
Like distant mountains, the moon must be larger than it looks, too massive to manipulate by magic. Apparently, you don’t have to be smart to become a wizard, but if you intend to survive, then you must be wise enough not to attempt to move mountains or the moon.
“Don’t worry, Eric. You are too big for this dragon to consider as food. Also, night vision is much easier magic than hurrying the moon. Think before you wish. If you wish too hard, then you might create accidental magic. Accidental magic seldom turns out well for the wizard.”
“Night vision?”
“Not tonight. Go to sleep.”
Is it simply the compulsion of his voice, or did he cast another spell to put me asleep? I often suspect he uses subtle magic to quiet me.
When I wake the following morning, I’m lying on my side. I can’t turn onto my back because something is wedged firmly against me and pushes back when I move. The something is alive. I roll the other direction.
“Do nothing rash.” Tovenaar’s voice is calm and even. “The beast likes you, maybe just your smell or your warmth on a cold night, but she likes you. Still, she is a wild animal.”
