~*~
Histories tell that the fair-skinned northerners were tribal, rude and uncouth, and the greatest level of aristocracy achieved was that of a chieftain or warlord. Their idea of a king was a man strong enough to hold sway over one or two hundred men and their families. Even in these times, not much has changed in the cultures of the cold northern realms.
Theirs was a rough existence in harsh, cold environments, and their practice of magic was hedge wizardry at best. Most often their practitioners’ of magic were medicinal Shamen most revered for their talents in herbal lore and animal husbandry. This northerner had evidently exceeded the social norms of his time and culture.
Glancing down his length, I noticed there was an item in his left robe pocket. From what I could see, it appeared to be the top of another of the colored books similar to those on the writing desk across the room, this one a deep navy blue. My curiosity took hold of me as I furtively reached to retrieve the book without disturbing its owner.
Fortunately for me, the wizard must have had a custom of sleeping on this side of the bed and not the center or I might have had difficulty reaching him without the distasteful prospect of climbing into bed with a three-hundred-fifty year old cadaver.
I leaned in to slip the book from the robe pocket and my breath caught in my throat. There, in the wizard’s left hand was held the most magnificent pen I had ever seen in my life!
I moved closer, my hand still touching the top of the magician’s book not yet retrieved from his pocket. I saw that the pen had a body of darkest ebony and was long and tapered, narrowing toward the top. A bit more than an inch from the top end was where the stopper met the body of the pen. Without the thin silver contact separating the stoppered top from the body of the pen, it would have seemed one carved length. The top was tethered to the body of the pen by a slim, twisted length of silver and gold threading that tied stopper to the grip of the pen. What I could see of the grip as it lay in the loose clutch of its owner was an intricate pattern of latticed silver and gold working evermore boldly as it reached out to the nib of the instrument. Half of that pen nib seemed to be an extension of the gold in the pattern, the other half silver and with a finer point than would seem practical or possible.
With my free hand, I reached for the pen, hoping desperately not to shatter whatever spell of sleep the wizard seemed to be under. Grasping it gingerly by the upper of the body, I slipped it from still fingers. With slightly more confidence, I slipped the blue book from the wizard’s pocket as well as I pulled away from what I now was convinced was a deceased man.
The pen was truly exquisite. I gently lifted the stopper from the silver contact ring as I moved toward the light of the window for a closer examination. The narrow wooden corking slid free intact revealing a silver-lined reservoir almost filled with a rich indigo ink. It truly seemed a functional work of art.
Now at the window, I realized that in fact, this was yet another double door which led out to a grand balcony that wrapped around the north and east face of the mansion. I quietly clicked open the right side door. The cool night air would help keep the boys asleep and I could better examine the book in the fullness of the moonlight. I slipped the pen into the pen pocket of my over-shirt. Being a scrivener, it is always a good idea to sew at least two pen pockets into each of your over-shirts. You never know when you need to safely store the tools of your trade.
I stepped over to the balcony just before the turn of the corner. Here I could have the necessary light and a direct view inside to where my boys dozed. Leaning on the carved stone balustrade I turned the blue treasure over in my hands. The cover was finely worked leather; the indigo dyed well into and through both sides of the hide. Fine workmanship indeed; the binding was perfect and the pages of the most superior quality. Of course, it seems this wizard felt no need to spare expense on anything he desired.
There were no title marks on the cover or spine save the numeral five written in the old northern script where the character looked like the capital ‘V’ followed by a period denoting a symbol for counting instead of spelling. The character was written in pure gold metal and set securely into the thick leather of the cover. I opened to the first pages and began to read:
Entry 731
The Geechiegatha are out of my control now. Their level of cunning and cruelty grow double with every passing month. I can no longer walk among them without fear of harm. They respect my power, but know that as their numbers grow they have less and less to fear from myself or from the world of Men. I must devise a formulation for limiting their power or they will overrun the forces of men and reach out beyond the borders of these forested lands.
I turned to the next page:
Entry 732
I have decided to limit their number by magical augmentation of their original formulation. I will set the number high enough to provide them with the power to resist the human incursion but low enough to require them to remain within the protection of this wooded domain. They will keep the forest free of men, and men will keep the world safe from them. Balance ~ and, I too will be safe, from man’s incursion. Solitary and alone, but secure and alive at the least.
I turned to the final entry, nine or ten pages from the back cover:
Entry 872
I submit to the melancholy. I can no longer exist in such a state as this, and I do not have the will to take my own life. This will be my final entry. The last formulation will take effect in moments. It will transfer my life element to my last and most trusted companion all these three hundred and seventy-three years of my life as a wizard. My last, I will unto my pet and friend Wulfrick. Though a Manticore externally, he has ever been a noble friend and ally. Alas, without the companionship of others like myself, I am cut off and alone. I cannot endure.
I welcome the long, dreamless sleep.
Write On Press Presents: The Ultimate Collection of Original Short Fiction, Volume II Page 12
