The Magical Book of Wands

by Raven M. Williams

  “You have a choice to make.” Her lips were tight, but I could see moisture in her eyes.

  “Tell me, please.” I reached out with my hand, but she flinched and moved back.

  “As I explained, you have the power to ease pain, and I do not lie. You can live for some years healing the sick and the wounded. It will be your sacrifice to stay here and earn redemption, but think of the good that you can do, for the wand is in your hands, to use as you wish.”

  Thoughts of using the wand for other purposes rushed through my head. Maybe I could heal my own body, perhaps make myself look younger? The thoughts mushroomed and I grinned. “I accept. I will take your wand, and I will heal all those that I can. You have my word.”

  “Alaric, look at me carefully. I am sorry, for the wand is still mine, not yours. I will allow you to use the power for the benefit of any that are sick, but never can you use it for your own purposes. It will not make you lose all those lost years, my love.”

  The wand slipped through my fingers, and I didn’t attempt to catch it.

  Waiting for more than a hundred seasons to see Magenta again had almost destroyed my body, yet I had at least retained my sanity. The Wand of Luminance had been lovingly made and now delivered, but her promise of eternal youth had disappeared in a flash.

  And now I’d only been offered a few more years of pain in a dying body.

  I’d foolishly believed that her new gift would, at least, allow me to pass a few pleasurable years, particularly in a younger and vibrant body, but my hopes had now been dashed, my fate now determined. My guts heaved, my eyes watered, and I doubled over holding my stomach. Trying to breathe proved difficult, for I guessed it wouldn’t be long before I’d be joining so many others in the afterlife.

  This wasn’t the way I had foreseen my life all those years ago. I’d trusted a goddess and she’d failed me. The word revenge came to mind. Would it be hers or mine?

  Uncontrollably, my body shook and my fingers and toes felt numb. I could feel my face burning like one huge fire so my fingers arched outwards. Magenta thought that I was reaching for her slim neck and jumped backwards in fright.

  She was wrong.

  Alongside the incumbent body of the young girl lay an old dirt encrusted dagger. I scooped it up and advanced towards Magenta. Knowing that I had so little time before she could stop me, I acted.

  “Why did you do it, my love?” Her voice was croaky and she cried aloud, as she tried to wipe the blood away.

  “I had to. I need you, but you don’t want me. I’m sorry for all the hurt, but now it’s over.”

  I could feel the dagger slipping from my fingers, and all the pain slowly slipping away. Her voice was calling me back, but already I could see a bright light ahead.

  Would it be heaven or hell in the afterlife?

  About the Author

  Hi everyone, I was called many names as a kid but luckily my original moniker has stuck with me over the years. I can imagine the confusion if I was still called Doughnut or Onze instead of Rick Haynes.

  My passion is fantasy and my two novels, Evil Never Dies and Heroes Never Fade, have received excellent reviews. The third in the Maxilla series, Magic Never Ends, should be available later this year once my new novel, Outcast has been published.

  As one reviewer posted about Heroes Never Fade – ‘Fans of Games of Thrones must read this book!’

  From the time that my dad told me tales when I was young, I have always loved short stories, and with his inspiration, I have written several collections, as well as being invited to submit tales for other anthologies.

  I do like a little bit of fun and Chocolate Chunks From Crazy Crete – a collection of tales from that magical isle – is as zany as the people. With the locals asking me to listen to their stories, how could I refuse their plea to put them all in a paperback? You’d never believe what they told me unless you’ve already read my book.

  The first reviewer posted, ‘It landed on my Kindle this morning and I haven’t stopped laughing.’

  With humour running through my veins and my eyes sparkling with the thought of another funny story bubbling away inside my head may I warmly welcome you to the world of my vivid imagination.

  Love and Laughter.

  Rick

  Links:

  Webpage: https://www.rickhaynesauthor.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/rickhaynesauthor/

  Gretel’s Gift

  By Krista Gossett

  IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN their 45th anniversary, but today Vincent was just returning from the cemetery where he buried his wife. An ailing man of seventy-two and she the love of his life. There was no starting over. He had loosened his tie as he walked through the warped wooden door of their home, the home they had raised four beautiful kids in. The nest had been empty for over a decade.

  He had walked all the way home, a grey day that threatened rain but didn’t follow through. He almost hoped it would because the tension made the air humid and uncomfortable, nothing moving without hesitation. Gretel hated days like those and for that woman to hate anything was a feat. Vincent shuffled along the neighborhood, making himself wave at the neighbors. Gretel would have told him to smile too or he just looked like a silly marionette with that wooden wave. He had nothing to smile about without her nagging at everything he did wrong.

  Lena, their baby, hadn’t liked the idea of him walking home. It was only a few blocks, but she had started to protest what that distance was to an old man. He had given her a look that made her think better of finishing that thought. He wished he had listened. Every step weighed heavier than the last; it had less to do with age, more to do with grief. Until he had stepped foot in their home, he had even hoped he’d join Gretel in death before he reached the front door.

  The dust hadn’t even had time to settle. He sure as hell didn’t dust around there and the clusters of photo frames Gretel had insisted on keeping everywhere were still clear. If he’d had any energy, he would have lain them all facedown. His eyes were rheumy enough that he couldn’t see the damned things anyway.

  Vincent turned to see his neighbor in the ridiculous pink shirt waving to him from the back of his equally ridiculous new riding mower. His neighborliness was all tapped out and he sneered, showing the bastard his back side. No sooner had he thought that someone should rain on his parade, the sky opened up in a sudden downpour. He might have laughed but the world was a little late on doing him any favors.

  He shuffled into the room, not even bothering to nudge the door closed. A couple steps in and, crack, the cane he hobbled around with had finally splintered beyond the powers of duct tape. He caught his breath and wobbled but managed to stay on his feet by some cruel miracle. He threw the useless stump aside and heaved a shaky sigh, recalling exactly what his wife had been ‘hiding’ in their bedroom closet as their anniversary gift to him. He hadn’t quite known what he was getting her yet. Gretel had never chided him for his last-minute gifts.

  Gretel had never been good at wrapping and he thought of the crinkled gold wrapping paper, gaping where she hadn’t taped it, and that ridiculous sheer red bow she’d stuck on top. She’d nagged him to buy a new cane instead of taping up the old one again and again. So she went and bought the thing out of the love and spite that only decades of marriage created.

  The doorway to their bedroom seemed to swell and recede in his vision as he used the furniture to weave his way towards it. He made his way to the bedroom closet and leaned against the doorframe, reaching around blindly until he felt it in his hands. He shuffled a few steps back, plopping onto their creaky mattress with the silly sad thing across his lap. His vision blurred from the feeble leak of whatever tears he had left.

  A sudden anger swelled through him and he shredded the paper, holding the most beautiful wooden cane he had ever seen at the end of its violent liberation. He stroked his hand over the strong mahogany wood, its clear varnish so well applied that it would never feel sticky in his hand. The carving wa
s so intricate that it rivaled the bedpost of a king. Something tingled on the edges of his foggy brain, something that felt like an incomplete memory, but he harrumphed it away, finding no use for memories right now.

  Numbness was the next ghost to visit and his eyes drifted to the bedside drawer. Pulling it open, he found their wedding album and his 45-caliber handgun. Those joined him on the bed as well.

  He heard a faint squeal of joy outside his window and saw the Harper kids laughing as they leapt through the continuing downpour wearing water wings. He scoffed at the absurdity, but remembered when the twins, Carol and Aggie, were that age. The lump returned in his throat. He and Gretel hadn’t had any sons. Their oldest, Megan, had grandkids the same age as the Harper kids now... Where had time gone?

  He pulled the little yellowed album into his lap and flipped it open to the first page, the picture of Gretel and himself standing at the altar. The overflow of that memory surged through him and he reached to touch the photo, pulling back the old hand that sought to defile it with revulsion. Those gnarled, spotted claws had no business there. His eyes traced over the doll-like woman whose smile never lost that brightness, those once raven ringlets no less beautiful when they had turned to silver, those eyes that never dulled over time.

  For a moment, he thought those photographed eyes turned silver and her skin the lilac of the flowers in her hair. He rubbed at his failing eyes, only serving to squeeze out the flow of unshed tears that blurred the picture from any further inspection.

  His offensive hand closed over the cold cruel metal of the gun as he raised it to his temple. Always loaded, safety off. Always had been since the day baby Lena had gone off to college. His other hand felt around for the cane. His lip quivered as he clutched it to his chest, feeling the same squeeze on the trigger of the gun...

  “I’ll see you soon, my love,” he whimpered, clamping his eyes tight.

  There should have been a bang; the gun burned hot in his hand and his body tingled until he could feel no more.

  The gun had fallen away, but his body had not joined it.

  The crackling amplification of that Bill Wither’s hit, Lean On Me, grew louder and he peeled an eye open in disbelief. He remembered this place. It was the park that had been torn down 30 years ago, he was sure of it. The heat of the summer sun began to register and he looked down at the book in his lap—his exam book from medical school laid across the denim pants. He’d always been too square to opt for the bell bottoms, but mostly because he’d tripped over the damn things the first time he tried strutting around in them...

  His hands shot out next as he tried to piece together what was happening. Sure enough, his hands were smooth, strong, and the cane had... shrunk. Its miniature was all the more impressive for the inhuman level of work one would have to do to craft it.

  He stuffed it into the inner pocket of his checkered jacket, reaching up to feel his thick, but... spiky hair? No, no, that was all wrong and he understood why he was getting weird looks now. That was a style he hadn’t worn in the 70s, no one did. It was something Gretel would have loved—the shaved sides, the short wild tuft up top. Ugh, it was hipster chic in their time...

  No, not their time... That place where they had grown old together would never really be ‘theirs’. He wouldn’t trade the years or the love, but to hell with growing old. Gretel would always be the laughing beauty in that photograph.

  Gretel. Was she here? If this were the past, then where was she? It had been a day just like this when she had walked up to him and said—

  “Cool jeans. Were you waiting for me long?” came the sweet voice of an angel.

  No, no, that wasn’t right either! Cool jeans, yes, but he hadn’t met her yet.

  His eyes lifted reluctantly to meet hers and she stole his breath away, the full wattage of that enrapturing smile holding him captive once more. He tried to still the violent tremble of emotion but it only rattled him more.

  “Gretel...” he whispered, his voice shaky with the force of that emotion rather than age.

  She was different. She had those black ringlets, not in the usual barrettes but a twisted chignon and a ridiculous diaphanous gown, jeweled bodice and all. Like the photograph, her eyes and skin seemed to alter into that unrealistic color palette once more.

  “Am I... dead?” he asked, not caring how ridiculous it sounded.

  Gretel laughed with the shimmer of a thousand tiny bells, shaking the loose tendrils at her cheeks when she denied his guess.

  “Geez, Vince, no, but... I kept something from you for far too long and I never should have let it go this far. You’re going to hate me,” she said, plopping down beside him, not minding the curious stares with the same discomfort that he was.

  “Gretel, I could never hate you,” ‘Vince’ stammered. He started to reach for her hand but a shyness stole over him as if this truly were their first meeting. Wasn’t it? He didn’t quite know what this was.

  Gretel smiled with uncertainty, grabbing his hands without the same reservations. Her big blue... silver?... eyes pleaded with him to forgive her.

  Never one to hesitate, she began her story.

  IT WASN’T THIS TIME at all, Vincent, when we first met. It’s all I allowed you to remember then and for good reason.

  I lived in a realm called Asphodel, and no, it doesn’t have the same meaning it has on Earth. I was... well, I was a Dark Fae, but not just any. I was a princess then. We were always at war with the Fae of Light.

  Oh, it was a beautiful place and one I could never do justice to with words. I know, I know, you always said I was quite the poet, but this was a place where more colors existed than humans can see and everything was transient and changing. If you were fae, you knew the metaphysical laws of travel and survival in a way that would never make sense here.

  And you weren’t fae, my love, but I am getting ahead of myself.

  My father had promised me to the Prince of Light and I had been young and furious and determined never to follow through with selling my soul for politics. Oh, I had all the old arguments down pat: “I’ll only marry for love”, “I’ll decide for myself”, “I never asked to be a princess.” Father reacted the exact same way every King does, which is with exasperation and inflexibility. “I’m the parent”, “I know what’s best for you”, the universal comebacks in every father’s arsenal followed.

  I knew it was useless to try to escape since all fae roads obey the King’s will first and foremost. If I had tried to run, it would have led me right back to him with my tail between my legs. Oh, that wasn’t figurative. I had a magnificent tail, Vincent, but I’ll show you soon enough.

  Fae are built with more than swiftness though and we are cunning and resourceful above all things. I had played the perfect princess, always looking for that chink in the armor.

  Time had been creeping closer to the day when I was to meet the Prince of Light. I didn’t know much about him, but then none of my people would have bothered to believe anything about him but the absolute worst so I couldn’t be certain. I began to think that maybe I wouldn’t need a way out, that he could be a kind, handsome fae and we could be the ones to unite the Light and the Dark.

  I read a lot of human fairy tales, even back then.

  You know what you get when you combine the light and the dark, Vince? You get grey. Gloomy, uneventful days when nothing happens because you’re always on the fence. Should we bother going to the park or should we stay in? Sure, it’s good for a day here and there, but every day? Not a chance.

  Sorry, yeah, I should get to the point.

  There had been this huge procession planned for my visit to Saranel, the Kingdom of Light. Marble so black that light shimmered purple on its surface had been used to adorn a palanquin to carry me. I might have insisted I could walk for myself if they hadn’t dressed me in a grape lace gown with a train three times my height and strapless to boot. I had actually been trained to walk by pressing my hands to the stomach of my bodice so that even the tight
lacing wouldn’t snap under the sheer weight of the tug each step would exact on my way into the Golden Hall.

  If you want a woman to never be able to flee, strap her in so much finery that she couldn’t run if she tried.

  If it had simply been a season like the Noble Court enjoyed, I might have been more than happy to have such attention lavished on me. Being strapped to a Golden Throne, to a man who was enemy to my people and one I had never met was another story.

  There will never be a day that I can forget that first hollow thud of my feet as I alighted from the palanquin before the Golden Steps. Yes, everything was Golden—the Fae of Light never being particularly creative with names or building materials. It was a gaudy eyesore, every bit of it. I flinched at every step I took, all forty-two of them, all the while wondering what would happen if I let the gown tear away, if I fled in nothing but the heels, garters and elbow-length gloves left on my body.

  Instead I had made it to the top of those stairs, seeing the craning necks of the Light Fae that were pretending not to see me. The grand archway had been left open for my arrival and atop the absurd expanse of it, my Golden Prince sat on a throne between his mother and father, no more than a wink in the distance.

  I dragged myself across that Hall with as much poise as I could muster, the strength of my rebellion still hammering through me. The beautiful train felt like so many dead bodies in zippered black bags. There were no attendants to help me drag the corpse train. I was grateful that the dress covered the tremble in my legs, the heels clapping with confident clarity on the tile underneath them.

  The lump in my throat only grew as the Prince loomed into view. For all the warmth of the gold around us, his eyes were so pale blue, they were nearly inseparable from the whites. Cold as the arctic climes of the Winter Elves. Again, that’s another story...

  If the Prince had any hair, it was tucked into the gaudy magnificence of his fur lined golden crown, although at this point, it’s become quite redundant to point that out. Just assume that it’s all a world made dull by the Midas Touch and you can picture it well enough. The shoulders of his princely raiment were well broader than any possibility on man or fae and I had no doubt from the delicate sharpness of his facial features that he was no warrior. It would have been just as wrong to assume he was weak. He was not, but I am getting ahead of myself again.