The Wizards on Walnut Street

by Sam Swicegood

  “1937,” she said with a grin. “But that flood pretty much took the last I had, and I figured I’d move it along. Todd was an up-and-comer and seemed like a nice bloke, so…yeah. He took over and I opened this place.”

  I felt a crushing feeling in my chest and tried to banish it: this woman was a dragon. And I was in her lair. The implications of this fact suddenly hit me and I might have physically jolted upright in the chair as my heart jumped a beat or two in my chest. “Miss Michaels, can I ask you a sort of off-the-wall question?”

  The Moddey Dhoo looked over at me and narrowed its eyes. “Aren’t you trying to get a job here? Don’t you think…other matters should wait or are you being impulsive again?”

  The old woman patted the dog’s head. “No, no, the child has good intentions, I can tell. Ask me your question then.”

  “What happened to the dragon called The Harrow?”

  Her face became twisted in a thoughtful, curious look as she stirred her tea with a long fingernail. She glanced down at the Moddey Dhoo, who shrugged, and gingerly set the cup of tea down. She reached over to a side table which had a shallow porcelain bowl and stroked it with a fingernail. “The tale of The Harrow is a tragic one, I’m afraid,” she said with a melodramatic amount of somberness to her voice, “and it’s one I could tell you if you want…” she looked at me with a depth that indicated centuries—maybe millennia—of wisdom. “Or if you would like, I could show you.”

  The bowl shimmered with magic, and I felt a pull against my heart to move closer. I shifted uneasily in my seat, leaning forward to look into the surface of the water and gaze into the depths of whatever she was offering, and then—

  I held up a hand. “Actually, I’m not really interested in magical flashbacks right now, sorry. So…can you just tell me?”

  She looked disappointed and set the bowl aside while I heard a stifled chuckle from the shadowy dog on the floor. “Well, it’s sort of a long story. You think you still have time?” She looked up at the big grandfather clock that rested patiently against the wall. “Your shift starts in ten minutes.”

  I sputtered, parsing what she had said as quickly as my mind could compute. “My shift? Like, a job shift? As in, I got the job?”

  She looked me sternly. “Nine minutes.”

  “OK, OK, please…” I’m sure I sounded like a whiny child. “Please just tell me.”

  “Wound up tight, this one,” the old dragon-lady said to the Moddey Dhoo with a half-smirk.

  “I know, righ’? Humans are so entertainin’.”

  The old woman sipped her tea for a moment. “So back in the day,” she began, “There used to be dragons all over in countrysides and such. Long before towns and cities. They had their own plots of land and whatnot, and a lot of the ones that weren’t too good at managing cities went out and claimed mountains and rivers as territory. One o’ them was a feller named The Harrow. Now Harrow was a bright one, fer sure, and had a knack for the magical arts—the same ones you humans use, ya know—and folks used to come from far and wide to get taught by the legendary magic-teaching dragon out in the State of Illinois.”

  I nodded and took a sip of my tea, which seemed to have changed flavors to something resembling blackberries and garlic. “But he wasn’t so good at actually running things, ya see, but he liked ordering people around like dogs… an’ so then in comes Chicago. Early 1800’s, I think, and there that town started to get bigger. It expanded into his plot o’land, it wasn’t a surprise to anybody that he wanted to jump at the chance to call it his own. Now, the Dragons are pretty particular about who they let run cities. Dragons have some rules about it—nothing I’ll get into now—but basically if a Dragon claims a city, it’s theirs until they get beaten in a challenge from another dragon, or if he does something so awful the rest of the Dragons step in.”

  “The Harrow was a fool,” The Moddey Dhoo snorted.

  “Maybe, maybe, but The Harrow was strong and probably one of the more learned dragons when it comes to magic. So when a few o’ the other, more…um…competent dragons tried to claim Chicago, they lost their challenges. Especially since The Harrow allowed wizards and witches in Chicago to cast Dark Magic…dark times, dark times,” she added and a sigh.

  I glanced at the clock. My shift started in six minutes. “Then what happened?”

  “Well, The Harrow, like I said, was still a brute. He used to get drunk and angry, and one night he let his temper get a hold of him, and he started a fire. Maybe you heard of it, eh?”

  My jaw dropped. “The Great Chicago fire?”

  “The very same. So after hundreds of dead people, hundreds of thousands homeless, and massive damage to the city itself, the Academy of Dragons stepped in and removed The Harrow. But he wasn’t going down without a fight, and the group that showed up to claim the city couldn’t convince him to leave peacefully…so we banished him as far as we could…” She grinned. “The moon.”

  I rubbed my head where it seemed a headache was beginning to rise. “So wait…there’s a dragon trapped on the moon? Just…sitting up there? Doesn’t he need food or air?”

  “Has no one explained the whole ‘magic’ thing ta you yet?” The Moddey Dhoo said, looking at me incredulously.

  I felt dumb and glanced at the clock. “OK, I really appreciate the information. And the job. I…” I mentally reordered my next words, much in the way a mad scientist combs his hair to make it orderly. “What is my job exactly anyway?”

  “You’ll be delivering food. Go downstairs and talk to Codwell, he’s the Puck downstairs.”

  I mumbled another “thank you” and darted down the stairs without even asking what a Puck is. After a single flight of stairs down, I arrived at the bottom landing. I blinked, looking back; they apparently had become significantly shorter. I didn’t have time to gawk, though, and I dashed past the host’s stand toward the kitchen and the back of the restaurant.

  Chapter 17

  I wasn’t really sure what to expect from Codwell—for all I knew he could be literally anything—but I was still taken aback by him as soon as I spotted his nametag. Not more than 4 feet high and supported by greyish-brown cloven hooves, the creature was covered in soft-looking, tan fur with dark spots. His tail swished back and forth as he moved, and even the monstrous horns protruding from the space between his fawn-like ears could not detract from the fact that Codwell was absolutely, and utterly, adorable.

  “Hello,” I said as soon as I had caught my breath, “Are you Codwell? Just got hired as a delivery driver—”

  Codwell rounded on me and looked me up and down. “Hm, hm…OK then. Ok then sure, sure sure. Let’s see, let’s see? What’s your name, what’s your name?” His voice was fast but perfectly coherent, and he appeared to be juggling about ten different managerial tasks at once quite impressively.

  “Andy—”

  “Andy, Andy Andy. Alright, okay, alright, let’s get you an order right now, right now!” He tapped on the counter of the kitchen window. “Order 12, order 12!” I didn’t have a chance to even react before a plastic bag filled with something warm was put into my hand.

  I tried to get the Puck’s attention as he got back to work organizing things. “I don’t have a car—” A set of car keys flew through the air at me, hitting me smack-dab in the middle of the forehead. “Ow!”

  “Red car, around the corner! Red car!” Codwell had piled a set of plates onto one arm and dashed past me into the busy restaurant. Without any more sources for the answers to my obvious queries, I headed out the front door and around the corner. There, parked at a meter, was a red 1992 Honda Odyssey. Its paint was scratched, and the windows had tint that looked like it was applied by hand—it was dotted with air bubbles and tears. A bumper sticker on the back of the car read Dole for President.

  Feeling a sinking in my stomach, I unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, to honest, and as I set my bag of food (which had now begun to slightly smoke) on the c
hair I pulled my 50 Thousand Employee Handbook out of my back pocket to discard it. I stopped, however, when I glanced at the front page. It now read The Cornucopia Employee Handbook. I flipped it open to a random page and read a few words[25] before groaning loudly and setting it down next to the food and starting the car.

  Or at least, I tried to. I turned the key and it made absolutely no sound. “Oh…come on…” I almost starting cursing right then and these, but I stopped myself as I spotted a used coffee cup in the cup holder that reminded me of another piece of equipment that refused to work. I cleared my throat. “Um…Hello…car…”

  “There you go,” the car replied politely, the voice seeming to come out of the car’s speaker system, “Very polite of you. Are you making a delivery?”

  “Yes, please,” I said, trying to muster all of the politeness I could and push out my anxious brain. I tried to start the car again and the engine turned over instantly, purring sweetly like a lion under the hood. A coughing, laryngitic lion, but a lion nonetheless.

  I pealed out of the parking lot and into the Cincinnati streets, quite thankful that unlike some other cities, Cincinnati was arranged more or less like a grid, with building numbers corresponding neatly to street numbers.

  I passed several high-rise company buildings to arrive as a recently-renovated set of condos nestled above a jewelry store. The building façade as adorned with pillars and ledges, and as I parked the sputtering red car on the side of the road, I was taken, briefly, by the lovely architecture of the building. I tried to unlock the door, but it was jammed. “Um…car? Can you unlock this?”

  The car was silent a moment. “Why would I do that? We’re having fun, aren’t we? Maybe you could just stay here for a while.”

  I tried the door again. “No, really…I would love to, but I have a delivery to make. Please let me out?”

  The voice was very sweet and sultry. “Tell me about yourself, love.” I didn’t have time to be kidnapped by a car. I picked up my phone and swiped as fast as my fingers could move, dialing Apollo. As I dialed, the car dropped out of park and began to move into traffic again. “Let’s go somewhere exciting!”

  “Please car, no…” I pleaded. I got Apollo’s voicemail. I dialed again.

  “See, I’m on the road a lot, but I like to go other places. Like the grass, the beach…” The car was driving down toward one of the riverside parks. It was gaining speed and I was frantically calling and texting Apollo to no avail. I didn’t have anyone else who might be useful. Well, except Killian, but she hadn’t responded to anything. At this point though, I was about 45 seconds from being in the Ohio River in the most psychotic talking car on earth. My fingers spat out a frantic text to her number. Tarped in insane talking cat HELP!

  Oh, for the love of—COME ON, Autocorrect. Why do you have to do this to me? I sent a follow up: trapped* car*

  The car had now barreled through an intersection and I tried desperately to yank the steering wheel before it hopped the curb and scraped the side of a sign that read “SMALE RIVERFRONT PARK”. I instantly regretted everything I had done that had led up to this point, from taking the job at 50 Thousand to investigating my dad’s death to even moving to the stupid Queen City itself, and as the car ramped down the stone steps leading down toward the water, I heard my phone ding and stole a glance at it right before the car hit the freezing and dirty water:

  Say NØKKEN

  I screamed the word at the top of my lungs as I was thrown violently to the side and nearly into the backseat, all noise drowned out by the sound of the cold water rushing over the door and windshield as the hood of the car crumpled under the weight of the sudden impact.

  Everything was suddenly very still. I waited, listening to the water of the river rushing up and lapping at the car slightly, but it no longer moved forward. Only the roof the car remained unsubmerged, and I didn’t dare move lest the car be jostled enough to start getting swept away.

  The car sighed at me. “Oh…you know my name. Now that’s no fun, now is it?” I was about to sputter a reply when the sound of the sunroof motor activating and opening up made me jump to the side in fright. The car seemed to be letting me go. I didn’t need any further encouragement, however; I grabbed my bag and the (fortunately) mostly-undisturbed bag of food and climbed out of the car.

  I immediately lost my balance, slipping down the side of the crashed car and falling on my back in the foot-high water. Somehow, I managed to keep my food above the waterline and with some difficulty I was able to walk to the shore. I looked around at the people passing by and none of them seemed to notice the car crashed thirty feet away, and I wondered again how they managed to stay so thoroughly unaware of the nonsense occurring around them.

  It was a long walk back to the delivery spot, and by the time I got there I was so very certain that I would not have a job when I returned that I hesitated to even deliver it in the first place, but a sense of duty and a bit of pride had dragged my waterlogged ass to this door, and at this point it was difficult for me to imagine how the situation would get more uncomfortable than it was now. I pushed the buzzer.

  “Yes.” The voice was raspy and deep.

  “Delivery from…Cornu—” The door opened and I pushed my way through it to the lobby. The delivery was on the 17th floor, and I groaned loudly as I saw a large “out of order” sign hanging on the elevator door.

  Nearly 20 flights of stairs later, I had reached my destination. I was shaking, sore, and questioning my will to live at all as I knocked on the door. It swung open instantly, and I was greeted with the visage of a tall, bipedal rat with twisted front teeth and a pair of spectacles nestled over its nose. “Oh thank you. Must be busy over there for it to take this long, but I’m glad you are here. Please, come in.” It stepped back and let me enter. The apartment was nice and decorated in a modern-minimalist thing that was quite pleasant, and but for the giant rat that was now making his way to the kitchen I might have taken it to be a completely normal person’s apartment. It occurred to me that at this point the sight of the giant rat man was not particularly alarming to me, and I wondered if I had finally absolved myself of the ability to give a crap anymore.

  “Please,” The rat said with a polite accent, “If you wouldn’t mind setting the food over there on the table with the lids open. Hard for me to open them myself,” he added with a chuckle, wiggling his short arms back and forth. I made my way to the table and started unpacking the food, thankful that despite the terrible ordeal I had not spilled any of it. The rat walked over to a computer desk that was facing the other direction and waved at the webcam. “Still here, guys! My food’s here.” He looked up at me with a smile—at least I think it was a smile—and gestured to the screen. “Would you like to say hi?” I heard a chorus of “Ooh!” and “Say hi!” from the computer speakers, and my curiosity completely took over my better judgment. I walked over to the computer and stood in front of the webcam.

  It was a web chatroom. The title of the page read “Monsters Hangout Room 42” and the screen was filled with 9 boxes, each bearing another grotesque or unearthly creature, who were all looking at me with curiosity and excitement. I waved at them awkwardly. “Hi.”

  They all waved back. A guy who looked sort of like a fish with horns moved close to his camera. “Oooh! Hello delivery person! Hello! What’s your name, love?”

  I looked at the rat and then back at the camera. “I’m Andy. Nice to meet you…all.”

  “Oh, aren’t you just the most adorable human-thing,” A female sphinx said, brushing her hair as she reclined on a fancy chaise, “Don’t often see many human-things, do we, folks?” The others agreed. I was instantly awed by these creatures—all of them Kobolda, I would assume—because it occurred to me that they all probably hid their existence from the outside world entirely. And yet the internet, in all its glory, had given them the opportunity to figuratively move out of their hovels or homes or apartments wherever they lived, to see the world and communicate with other lon
ely creatures in the same situation. It was all at once amazing and heartbreaking.

  “But you have to get on with your deliveries,” the rat said, ushering me back to the table. “Say goodbye, everyone!” The chat room replied with a chorus of short farewells and began excitedly discussing my human appearance in quiet voices. I quickly finished opening the containers, which seemed to be filled with mashed fruits and huge balls of meat and barley, before waving good-bye and heading for the door. “Your tip is just over here on the desk,” the rat said as I reached for the doorknob. I looked over and saw small wad of bills, and I thanked the rat for his generosity before heading out and back into the hallway.

  I again thought that I might just head home at this point. I was sopping wet, cold, and by the time I would make it back to Cornucopia I would have spent almost two hours delivering one order. I reminded myself, however, that I wasn’t doing this for the money; I was just trying to maintain a job to keep the Silencers at bay.

  ~

  I pushed my way through the back door of Cornucopia, arriving with dripping hair and clothes. As I entered the kitchen, several of the cooks stopped, looking up at me curiously. I tried to play it cool despite the fact that I was shaking internally. “So the car…um…is in the river.”

  All at once, they all broke into raucous laughter. A hand clapped me on the back and pushed me through the kitchen to the delivery station once again while the staff crowded around. “Chef Babbers Mulligan,” a scaly-skinned lady with fangs said, leading me around the steaming kitchen. “The three green guys at the prep table are Bingle, Bangle, and Bungle—plant people. Nice guys. Troll over there is our butcher Ging-Wa. Let’s see…” I was driven around the kitchen by clawed hands and I didn’t even attempt to resist. “The dishwashers are over there—stay out of their way, though, because they clean the dishes with acid spit. Oh, and the pâtissiere is the one behind you.” I turned my head to see that the clawed hands on my shoulder corresponded to an enormous, muscular furry wolf-creature with a wet mouth large enough to swallow my whole head in a single bite. “That’s Linda.”