The Wizard's Story

I had no chance to write that night. When the sun rose, I dusted myself off and ran to the top of a dune, leaving Lilly blinking in the morning light. From the crest, I could see the nomad camp—in total disarray. For a moment, I thought they were going to annihilate each other. Then, the nomads split into two halves. One half disappeared, heading south with the remaining camels. The other group drew closer as I watched. I gave a shout.

Moments later, the nine pilgrims were gathered. The Knight shielded his eyes from the sun and peered across the sandy gap. “Half of them have gone after their animals. Half are coming after us.”

“Nine against twenty five,” said the Old Lady. “Not good odds.”

Turning north, toward the shrine that we would probably never reach, we began to trudge. The odds of happening upon a spring or finding rain were better than defeating twenty-five armed men who had decided to kill us.

“Carry this,” said Lilly, shoving the cigar box at me. “It’s getting heavy.” Some things, it seemed, would not change. I comforted myself in the knowledge that it was all (probably) part of her act, her attempt to come across to the world as a normal aristocrat, one with zero skeletons in her closet. Even burning her shoulders on the first day of the trip had no doubt been part of it. She wasn’t dumb. I tried to catch her eye as we trudged, looking for a sign that she was acting; but she gave none.

Every so often, I looked over my shoulder. The nomads were always there, always closer, jogging across the sand, never seeming to tire now that their attitude on life had undergone the fundamental shift required to initiate a suicide attack.

I glanced at the Wizard. “I don’t suppose you could destroy them all with a single spell.”

The Wizard’s lip curled beneath his beard. “As I’ve previously intimated, you know nothing. When it comes to magical gifts, most are very small. It is about small changes that add up over—”

“What can you do?” I asked.

“If I could do anything relevant, don’t you think I would have done it?” said the Wizard.

“Don’t be a dick,” said the Hunter. “Just tell us what you can do.”

The Wizard looked ready to push the Hunter down a dune, but then he deflated. Or he pretended too. Once he started speaking, it was clear he relished the chance to brag: “I was promoted to headmaster precisely because I have two standard deviations more magical gifts than the average professor at the Great Academy. I can start a fire with a spark. There’s the scrying. I can make the wind blow, small gusts at first, but it adds up. I can charm animals. I can translate languages. I can make people tell the truth. I can turn small objects invisible. I can—”

“What kind of objects?” asked the Hunter.

“Not a whole person, if that is what you want.”

“Of course not. How big of an object?”

“Less than a cubic foot.”

“And did you say you can make the wind blow?” asked the Hunter.

“It pains me when I have to repeat myself.”

The Hunter nodded. “Interesting. And you,” she said, turning to the Singer. “I’ve heard you hum. There’s something about it—something I can’t place. It makes me…” she trailed off. “It’s hypnotic, right?”

The Singer tried to look modest, but failed. She was too beautiful to ever have known the nature of modesty. “I don’t use it often,” she said. “And only when I absolutely have to—”

“What does it do?” demanded the Wizard, apparently not liking that he might not be the only magic wielder on the pilgrimage. I wondered how he would feel if he found out about Lilly.

“It makes people… appreciate me,” she said. “Actually, it’s like a love spell. Okay, it is a love spell. But like I said, I only use it when I absolutely have to.” I wondered what kind of love-related situations qualified as dire enough for such a gorgeous woman to use her song.

I reached for my waterskin. It was empty. “Is there any more water?” Silence. I suddenly felt the panic of being cornered.

Everyone looked to the Hunter, who seemed to be bearing the responsibility for saving everyone’s lives with surprising calm. “Let’s hear it,” said the Hunter to the Singer.

“What?”

“Your song. Your voice,” said the Hunter. “I have to know how it works, how strong it is.”

Lilly looked nervous, rubbing her peeling shoulders. “She could just tell us.”

“I need to know exactly how it works,” the Hunter said. “I’m formulating an idea.”

“Is it—” Lilly winced. “—permanent? I mean, I’m sure you’re a very nice person, but I don’t really want to fall in love with you. No offense.”

The Singer batted her eyes in jest, but seemed to also be rolling them simultaneously. “People become intensely attracted to me for the duration of the song. For some it lingers. For a very few, it’s permanent.”

“Having everyone here fawning over you…” said Lilly. “It sounds counterproductive.”

The Hunter nodded at the approaching nomads. “If they travel at night, they’ll have us before morning.” She let it sink in. “Sing.”

When she started to sing, I realized I had never known what love was, had never felt such burning in my chest, had never felt so light, so happy. The intrinsic buoyancy of my soul lifted me skyward. I floated toward the singing woman. Her hair blew across her face. I could have written a poem about every strand. The Wizard pushed past me, obscuring the woman’s face, so I shoved the old man to the ground before I could think. Then before I could move, a fist came out of nowhere and connected with my jaw.

From the sand, I blinked. The notes of the song faded into memory. The Singer chewed her lip. For a moment, I still wanted to throw myself at her, but then I remembered Lilly and our beautiful practice kisses under the stars.

“Sorry,” said the Knight, helping me up. “I don’t know why I did that.”

The Hunter was helping an embarrassed Lilly to her feet. Everyone, in fact, was in some state of embarrassment except the Fool and the Mourner, who were standing there as if nothing had happened. The Wizard sat blinking on the sand and refused to be helped. His eyes were far away.

“Why,” said the Hunter, turning to the Singer in excitement, “didn’t you mention this before? This is perfect.”

“It won’t be that strong on them,” said the Singer. “It works best on people who know me.”

The Knight’s arm encircled her waist. He seemed unable to let go.

“If it only works half as well,” said the Hunter, “I can get us out of this mess.” To the Wizard and to me: “I need your help, both of you.” The Wizard’s eyes were still glassy. He didn’t answer.

The Hunter knelt down in front of him. “Wake up.”

The Wizard’s eyes focused. “Yes?”

“Come with me,” she said, dragging the Wizard to his feet. I followed, taking one last look over my shoulder at the Singer, hair blowing in the wind. What would it be like to be able to make people like you without any effort at all? I wondered.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we crested a tall dune and descended to the other side.

“Away from everyone else,” said the Hunter. “For safety. This is going to be dangerous. It involves snakes.” When the three of us were safely away from the rest of the pilgrims, she said, “Here. Stop. Professor Octavius, you can charm animals, correct?”

The Wizard wasn’t listening. His eyes had gone glassy. “She’s a very beautiful woman,” he murmured. “Gwen.”

“Snakes?” I said.

“Lots of them,” said the Hunter, snapping her fingers in front of the Wizard’s face.

The mist in the Wizard’s eyes cleared and his brain seemed to catch up with the situation after a moment. “What do you plan to do with them?” he demanded.

The Hunter pointed to the golden cigar box I was carrying for Lilly. “Nial will put them in here. As many as can fit.”

“Why?” said the Wizard, rolling his eyes. “Because you’re going to save us?”

“Yes. If you can shut up for two seconds and get me some snakes.” The Hunter didn’t wait for a response, she turned and started walking back.

I called out: “Hey! Where are you going?”

“To coach Gwen on her part in all this,” she called out. I watched her disappear over the dune in a calm stroll, as if she couldn’t even hear the distant whoops of nomads on a suicide mission.

Suddenly, gripping my shoulder and wheeling me around, the Wizard said, “You are very young. So I’m going to tell you this, even though it pains me to do so. If you happen to have a beautiful woman waiting for you back home—as I do, then—barring some sick and twisted necromantic miracle—you are never going to see her again.”

“If you want to talk about something,” I said. “Just ask.”

“I do not ‘need to talk about something,’” said the Wizard, doing a surprisingly good impression of my voice. The sullen Wizard began to draw magic signs in the air. Nothing happened. More signs. Only the wind blew.

“What’s wrong?”

“Shut up, Nial.”

The Wizard tried again, hands trembling as they danced through the air, causing absolutely nothing to happen. His brow furrowed. “Magic is an extremely technical discipline. I don’t expect you to understand this. There exist a number of factors which can greatly influence the efficacy of any given system of—”

“Basically you’re scared shitless,” I said. I looked down at the box in my hand and wondered how in the world I was supposed to get the Wizard to charm snakes into it.

“Fear is for the weak-minded. I am, however, understandably preoccupied with the impending pig slaughter that happens to involve my blood spilling onto a stretch of sand far away from my home. If you were older, you would comprehend this.”

“Pig slaughter. I think I get it. Hey, tell me more about whoever is waiting for you back home. Maybe it’ll calm you down and—”

“I told you, I don’t need…” He trailed off and seemed to change his mind. “Actually, you’re pretty good at remembering things and writing them down later, right?”

“Uh,” I said, “yeah. I guess you could say—”

“Dear Dean of Academic Affairs, Fellow Professors, and Adjunct Members of Our Fine Staff… That’s how a letter might start. Would you be able to remember that?”

I gave it my best shot, to which the Wizard grunted. “Not terrible.” It was the closest I would get to a compliment from the Wizard.

The Wizard seemed to calm. “If I dictate a letter and if you somehow manage to reach the South Sea Nations once again, there is a clerk in the main office of the Academy who will give you two gold pieces if you tell him to pay the standard courier’s fee from ‘miscellaneous expenses account number five seven seven five.’”

“Five seven seven five,” I said.

“It’s my department’s accounting code,” explained the Wizard, who seemed to be calming down now that he was explaining things.

I said, “Call the snakes. You talk. I’ll listen. And if I survive, I swear I’ll try to get those two gold pieces. I’ll be broke the moment I get back, so it’ll be as good a job as any.”

As the Wizard drew signs with his fingers, the air grew thick with enchantment. I felt the sand move under my feet, and the Wizard took several steps backward, still making signs and mumbling under his breath. Moments later, I was standing as still as a statue in a patch of writhing sidewinders.

“Now,” said the Wizard, “I will talk. And you may gather your serpents for whatever Asuana’s foolhardy plan might be.”

I was too terrified to be glad that the Wizard seemed to have taken hold of himself. With trembling hands, I tried to open the box and dropped it. Snakes hissed angrily and began snapping at each other. Helping me gather snakes was, apparently, too taxing a task for the Wizard to perform while simultaneously engaged in the process of dictating a letter. He launched into narrative, acquiring a far away look in his eyes, not unlike the look that I’d seen in Lilly’s eyes a few times the night before. I fancied that it was the look of someone who must divulge secrets before being eaten alive by them, and before taking them to the grave.

“As I said: Dear Dean of Academic Affairs, Fellow Professors, and Adjunct Members of Our Fine Staff… I trust you still remember, Nial?”

The snakes were crawling over the cigars, coiling around them, tonguing the tobacco. Lilly was going to be pissed. And of course, my life was in mortal peril. I dared not move my feet.

“Got it,” I said.

“Good, good. Now after the salutation, I wish the letter to go thusly: ‘I have the most immense respect for all of you, especially for my lovely wife—whom I am happy has finally been accepted into our academic fold as a tenured professor.’ Do you follow so far, Nial?” I repeated back the gist of it and tried to explain that once I was writing things down, I would remember it in greater detail. He humphed. “Okay, then it should continue: ‘I hope that you esteemed and learned members of our Great Academy all possess enough respect for me to assume that I’m not so blind or deaf as to be oblivious to the shadowy whisperings you are all so fond of trading like little packets of drugs during our faculty cocktail parties.’ Got that, Nial? Say ‘Packets of drugs.’ It’s called a metaphor.”

I felt a snake slither up my pants. “Got it,” I gulped.

“I will now dictate the letter in its entirety without stopping. When we finish, we can review the details.” He cleared his throat. “’I want all of you to know that you don’t have to whisper any more because I am dead and cannot hear you. Scream your rumors as loudly as you wish and fear no societal repercussions from my direction. But before you do so, please finish reading this letter and try to let a few rays of sunlight cut through the foggy nether regions of your mind.

“First of all, none of the events that transpired three years ago were my fault. You may disagree. And the rumors probably say otherwise. Even my lovely wife will probably raise an eyebrow. Fine. But hear me out.

“It is a father’s duty to raise his child not only with strength but to raise his child to have strength—not only to discipline her but to teach her how to discipline herself. Let it be stated for the record that before she was ten years old, I taught my daughter every theorem ever proven by any great magician, from Peli back to Merlain. Let it be stated that she could mix potions and weave spells with a precision that made all of you sweat with jealousy, whether you will admit it or not. Don’t pretend that you took it all in stride. My wife and I could hear the whisperings at the cocktail parties when she was alive as well as I could at the parties after she died. I heard you all discuss the possibility of necromantic intervention or demonic possession. Well, rest assured she was simply, unequivocally, and with the utmost certainty more intelligent than any of you will ever be. Nothing magical about that.”

I felt the snake crawl across my kneecap, around my leg, and up the back of my thigh. Whether to move and try to grab it or to stay very, very still was quite the dilemma.

“You have all accused me, with your eyes, of being too hard on her when she was in my class. This is an absurd position to take. In fact, let it be stated that I hereby levy the opposite critique at the rest of you. You were much too easy on her. Not one of you could bring yourself to give her a low mark. Every single one of you let yourself assume that merely making high marks on tests was a sufficient way for a student of her caliber to get through school. If you had all been harder on her, tried to give her a real challenge, then she would have been properly prepared for my course on Peli’s Theory and Praxis Regarding the Metaphysical Juxtaposition of Semantic, Mystical, and Philosophical Conceptions.”

I slowly pulled the waistband of my pants out, hoping the snake would seek fresh air and sunlight. But it seemed content to wait, nestled in a fold of my clothing. Every now and then, its tongue flicked out.

“But no! None of you had the slightest idea, the vaguest inkling, the smallest glimmer about how to cultivate and nurture such genius. It was all of you—no matter what you say—who drove her to do what she did. For her whole life, I made her into something strong. Then, all of you colluded to undo the craftsmanship that I put into her construction. So whisper all you wish about how I was ‘too hard on her.’ Whisper your insane theories, about how one low mark drove her to do what she did. Fine. But don’t try to deny that the failure to prepare her for failure lies with all of you.” The Wizard paused. “Yes, I like the sound of that. ‘The failure to prepare her for failure.’ You may italicise the word ‘prepare’, and it shall be a beautiful turn of phrase if I do say so myself. You see, Nial? Writing is both an art and a science. Do you know of italics?”

I reached my fingers into my pants ever so slowly.

The Wizard’s art and science continued: “Each and every one of you—my learned wife included—never saw just how fragile you were making my daughter until it was too late. And now you all have the audacity to whisper about it being my fault.”

My fingers crept toward the snake. I hoped to grab it just beneath its head. The reptile’s glittering eyes watched my fingers approach.

“With that said, if my body is ever found, please bury me in the graveyard behind the school—in the spot beside my daughter. If my body is not found, please bury some of my things. I expect a funeral befitting a University professor with tenure and the eighth headmaster of our fine institution. You may use account number five seven seven five to pay for the arrangements. Five seven seven five. Do you have that, Nial?”

Just as my hand was deep in my pants, Lilly crested a nearby dune. “They’re getting close—” Her eyes went wide. I could imagine what I looked like, standing with the Wizard, hand down my pants, surrounded by snakes.

I pinched the snake. It went crazy, trying to wriggle free. It opened its mouth revealing dripping fangs, like white needles. Removing the snake and my hand from my pants, I tried to smile at Lilly. “It’s fine,” I called out. “Tell everyone things are going well. Don’t come any closer.”

In a daze, she disappeared behind the dune.

I bent over, reaching for the golden box lying in the sand (a detail Lilly had thankfully not noticed). Sweat dripped off my forehead into the pit of snakes—precious drops of water. The creatures swarmed over the moisture. After delicately picking up the box and dumping out the rest of the cigars, I placed the snake into the bottom, on top of the “WANTED” poster.

“Sign the letter, ‘Professor Octavius, Headmaster.’”

I squatted down, inch by inch, until I was sitting on my haunches amidst the snakes. I reached for a cigar that stuck out of the sand. A snake had taken up residence on one end of it. I grabbed the other end and transplanted the snake into the box. The two imprisoned reptiles hissed at each other and exchanged serpentine pleasantries in the form of lightning-fast strikes. Then, they decided to ignore each other. I went back for more. A snake leaped into the air, trying to bite my hovering hand. I jerked away and almost fell backward. My weight shifted, unsettling a whole group of serpents.

“And then add a postscript. Postscripts are of the utmost importance. Say, ‘No matter what you decide to do regarding the funeral arrangements, please take a moment to put a red rose beside my daughter’s headstone. You owe it to her, you pack of self-deluded prigs.’”

Using two cigars as tweezers, I pinched a snake and transported it to the box—which now balanced precariously on my knees. The method was a success. The cigars helped me move twelve more tiny vipers into the box. I closed the lid, to the annoyance of the serpents. They writhed within, trying to get free.

I imagined that I could feel the snakes slithering all over my body, inserting their poisoned needles into my wrists, my neck, my eyes. “Okay,” I said. “You can stop the spell now.”

But the Wizard paced back and forth obliviously—drugged by despair and floating on the waves of memory. I eyed the small sea of snakes, extending four feet in all directions. Could I jump? There would be no running start. And I had a box in my hands. I envisioned the leap in my mind. My ever-dark, ever-paranoid imagination, of course, showed me the worst possible outcomes: I would fall short, landing on a bed of poisoned teeth; I would jump, but the box would fall open, letting the vipers take revenge on my face; I would—

I wondered if I was about to kill myself as my leg muscles knotted, ready to release. I leaned forward and clutched the box to my chest. One burst, I thought. One launch, one moment of flight. I took a deep breath. And jumped. I soared through the air and hit the sand just outside of the danger zone. As I rolled, I crammed the golden box to my chest so it wouldn’t pop open. For a long moment, I lay still, on the hot sand, the afternoon sun beating down on me. A quick inspection revealed that my body and clothes were snake-free.

The Wizard passed his hands absently over the viper pit. All at once, the creatures dove into the ground or slithered away, leaving only their winding paths in the sand behind. “Did you get all that?”

“Some other wizards weren’t mean enough to your daughter wizard,” I said, marching up the dune. “Oh, and: Five seven seven five.”

“Hey! Come back here! You’ve omitted nearly all of the details!”

I kept walking. Behind me, I thought I heard the Wizard begin to cry—perhaps for the first time in years. But I didn’t look back to make certain.

Dear Human, as you probably suspected, I was lying beneath the sand much like a snake myself. I will admit that it was quite moving to see the humans working together to extract themselves from the situation. I did not know what Asuana’s plan was, and I was prepared to spring forth to save them should it fail. But in the meantime, I had learned two things by waiting to see how they handled the situation: Both Gwen Florence’s song and Professor Octavius’s hidden rage could be powerful assets in the hands of the morls. There beneath the warm sand listening to Professor Octavius’s story is when I began to dream of a great academy called the Shadow Guild, amidst a great Morl Nation encompassing the entire South Sea. Why kill humans ourselves if we can get them to do it to each other? They are already so good at hating each other.