The Wicked Wand Page 5

  On the fifth morning, I dutifully bolted a thatched hut of blue grass to appear on one command and three taps from the waterwizard. ‘Ye be ready enough for witches,’ he frowned. ‘Today we go.’”

  Chapter Twenty

  TO THE DANKEN WOOD

  “He were about to stuff me into his pouchbag when I threw an invisible bolt of magic straight into his mind. ‘Better yet, I’ll carry ye like so in my hand,’ said Briny Brook, and I chuckled silently at my success. Carried across the sky trapped with a clutter of amulets and potions on the inside of a pouchbag? Not for me. The waterwizard chanted us with a frown into the sky high above the pool and its surrounding grob trees. I felt a gladness as we floated away which prompted me to throw a bolt of mischief back at the oasis. I turned all of its lush blue grass into tar. Ha! Briny Brook never noticed. He were sailing along, eyes fixed on the horizon of Blue Hills. I chuckled silently more again, imagining snaves slithering over the dunes and into the tar. I were that mischievous. Then! Not now! It were a rudeness, that mischief were. The first rudeness of many a more. We be such lackwits when we be young, be we not?”

  The wand paused so such as if expecting an answer. Kar and I exchanged shrugs and glances.

  “I guess so,” said Kar.

  “Yoss ... I suppose,” I agreed, not really agreeing, but wanting to hurry the wand’s story along so such without starting an argument.

  “Ye do be like the Babba Ja Harick,” continued the wand. “I be taken back to times ago when ye say ‘Yoss’ like that. It were a pleasantness, that cottage were. I didn’t note its measure. Lackwit youth I were. I should have been satisfied to dwell there ever and all without mischief. If ye give me a second chance, ye will not regret it, new Harick. Content to serve ye, content to dwell again in the edible cottage I will be. Humbly I vow to serve ye. Humbly ...”

  “Yoss, yoss ... but burst ... first ... finish the ... the story,” I interrupted, not any at all comfortable with the groveling manner the wand assumed.

  “As ye desire. Where were I? Oh, in flight. Yes. Over the blue dunes we flew, then over the Blue Hills. Briny Brook chattered all the while in his low grumble voice. He told me that the snaves lived under the moving Blue Hills in cavernous theaters. (Kar and I knew more than enough about that. We exchanged smiles of knowledge.) He pointed to the bouldery jumbled mountains of Skrabble when they came into view on the south side of the Greenwilla River. ‘I veer there on my way to the Swump,’ he said. He pointed north of the water ribbon which were the Greenwilla River. ‘Charborr Forest. A new journey. Never have I veered north of the river until today,’ he told me. We veered and sailed above the tall black trees. His hand gripped me tighter, and he grumbled faster in excitement at each new sight. ‘Woods Beyond the Wood,’ he announced. ‘The Wood that the Woods be beyond be the Danken Wood! In the Danken Wood be the cottage of the lavender witch, the Babba Ja Harick. Edible cottage! Tasty! Sweet!’ Such a collection of thoughts made him clamp me under his arm so that he could dig in his pouchbag and find a powder to give us more speed. He found it. Yellow it was, and he dusted his red beard with it. We swept along twice as fast, pushing the air aside. Woods Beyond Wood. We swept over its fat green bushy trees. Tall spike green trees on the horizon. Danken Wood! The tallest tree. The Redgalla. We sped above it. Then Briny Brook slowed us with a mumbled chant and turned us in lazy circles over the Danken Wood. ‘There be a clearing, they say. There be a tricklestream down a hill. There be ... There it be!’ The clearing were below us. In it were two dwellings. One were a woody structure, sturdy. The other were a marvel. Caked and iced! Pied and gumdropped! Well, ye know. Of course ye know. But that were the first time for Briny Brook and for me. The waterwizard hurried us down, and he walked to the witch’s door. It were halfway open. Its handles, knobs I knew later, were missing. Briny Brook poked his head with boldness into the cottage. It were empty.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE TRADE

  “A puff of time later Briny Brook were sprawled on the cottage floor, and I were rolling to a stop against a lightly frosted wall. Magic slipped free from my grip and danced, spark and glimmer, eluding my frantic clutches. A lesson were learned then there. Unless I were held in Briny Brook’s hand, I were unable to grasp my magic. I vowed to change that bothersome fact. I vowed. Ye see how I were successful. Oh, it took a long great span of time, though, a long great span. It took ...”

  “Why was Briny Brook sprawled on the floor?” interrupted Kar, now so such at ease to be near the wand and seemingly so forgetting its danger.

  “Sprawled?” said the wand, truly brought back to its story. “Ah, sprawled. Briny Brook. Yes. He were made to sprawl by a booming crash of a voice behind him. A monstrous ogre of a troll or troll of an ogre, all over covered with night blue hair and sprouting horns and claws and tusks most impressive, had asked, ‘Are you looking for Babba Ja Harick? She isn’t here. She’s away gathering fuzzletong berries for when she freezes which she does often enough, I can tell you. Then it’s up to me to smash one on her forehead to melt her. I should introduce myself. I am Gorge, the witch’s neighbor. You saw my house over there, I’m sure. I’m building more basements and chairs. Would you like to have a look while you wait for the witch? I can see that you are a waterwizard. First visit? It ... Oh, here she is.’ The monster moved aside, and the lavender witch stepped into the cottage and flung her broom into a corner, where it swept a space clean before leaning against the wall. ‘Are you the ... lizard I am expecting?’ she asked, unfastening her cloak and dropping it on the floor. She threw her hat and a small purple drawstring pouch at a table, and then tapped her nose three times with one of her ring-laden fingers. ‘Well, are you?’ Briny Brook were all this time trying to gather his dignity by lifting himself from the floor to float on air in his cross-legged manner. ‘I be Briny Brook from beyond the Blue Hills,’ he grumbled. ‘I would trade with ye, lavender Harick.’ The witch kicked off her buckle shoes and stepped to a cauldron on a sugary-looking hearth. ‘Gorge, snap off the ... the ... butterscotch drainpipe and string ... ring ... swing ... no ... bring it in here. Yoss! That’s it!’ she ordered the great blue troll ogre. ‘All of it?’ the monster asked. ‘Yoss,’ replied the witch. The monster disappeared from the doorway. A squeaking strain followed by a snapping crack sounded from outside. The troll returned, carrying a honey golden drainpipe. ‘Ye knew of me?’ asked Briny Brook, caressing his long red beard and staring hungrily at the drainpipe. He were impressed to a humbleness by the manner of the witch. The witch squinted hard at the waterwizard through her spectacles and said, ‘The crystal hall ... no ... ball ... yoss ... told me. You have fought me a blond ... brought me a wand. Where is it?’ Briny Brooks’ ice blue eyes darted glances around the cottage until they saw me. He pointed. ‘There it be.’ The witch approached, bent down and picked me up. Aha! The magic were once more captured in my grasp! I fought not to use it. I fought to wait. Mischief clawed at me. ‘Ye tap it three times to release its power,’ instructed Briny Brook. I smiled to myself a secret smile. I had successfully guided the waterwizard into a false belief. And also too, my magic power were mine not only when held by the waterwizard, but when held by the bony witch, too. Or maybe when held by anybody or any other living thing? A warmth of triumph shivered in me. Mischief! It be so ... Wrong! Wrong! It be wrong! The witch tapped me on a candy window pane three times and chanted, ‘Wind, rain, snow, all in a ... row.’ Three bolts of magic I unleashed. Winds gusted. The cottage door went slam, slam, slam, bamming against the wall. The witch’s black hair writhed. Briny Brook’s robe rippled. He held onto his conical cap. The ogre troll dropped the drainpipe and fled. Winds died away. Rain fell, straight, soft, gentle, then became snow drifting. The falling flakes melted and returned the day to the sun. ‘Yoss. My flowers ... powers are complete,’ said the witch. ‘Waterlizard, the butterscotch drain ... pipe is yours. Yoss. Lake ... bake ... take it, Briny Brook. Whatever of it you beat ... fleet ... eat today ... will ... will ... reappear tomorrow.
Yoss! That’s it!’ Briny Brook scooped the drainpipe in a hug from the floor. He nibbled on it, closing his eyes in bliss. Then he bowed to the witch and flew off up out over the trees and away. I were alone with the witch, and I were eager to make mischief. Wrong, but true. And truth be all that I speak now. I hold nothing hidden.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  MISTAKES

  “Mistakes,” continued the wand. “Mischief makes ye to make mistakes. That be another reason to leave off causing mischief. Mischief. I tell ye, it bit me twice early. Did I learn when it bit me? No, I did not, such a foolish lackwit so young with youth I were. Yes, I were left alone with the witch. She turned me over and over in her lavender hands, mumbling as she admired me, her rings clicking as they tapped against me. I were brightly eager to cause mischief. Clashing ideas battled in me. Make the whole cottage tar. No. Make the witch tar. No. Make the cauldron tar. Ye can see that my imagination were clogged with tar. Then the witch shouted, ‘Gorge!’ The monster troll’s great horned head with its fanged mouth grinning appeared peeking through the open doorway. ‘Is the magic over?’ he said. The witch replied, ‘Yoss. Get in ... here. Cook ... look at my new ... frond ... bond ... no ... wand! ... Yoss! That’s it!’ A sudden idea, a tasty one, struck me, and I tell ye, it had nothing to do with tar. I would transform the troll into a giant pillow! Ha! Mischief! It were so ... wrong! It were wrong! That be what it were. Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

  “It was wrong. We understand,” said Kar impatiently. “It was wrong. Did you do it?”

  “I did it,” admitted the wand. “Mistake. When the witch raised me to show to the troll, I couldn’t help it, could I? She pointed me directly at him! I flung a bolt of magic, and the monster were a great cushiony pillow. Ha! But mistake. Mistake because the witch dropped me. Mistake because the witch then froze in place, standing there with a shocked expression on her lavender face. The magic slipped out of my grasp. I struggled on the floor. I had no mastery of movement then. I were young, so young. I were there, helpless, motionless on the floor of the edible cottage. The big pillow cushion half-filled the doorway. The witch were a statue, wide-eyed shocked. Ye know about the witch and her freezes? (We nodded yes.) Ye know how fuzzletong berries melt her? (We nodded yes.) Well, ye do not know what happened next. (We shook our heads no.) I will tell ye. A span of hours dragged by. Night became day. Nothing changed. Then the pillow troll moved! Unknowing, I had given it paws with my mischief spell. It were waking from an apparent long shocked faint. It scuttled around the room in a panic, bumping softly into walls, cupboards, table legs. It slowed and settled, crouched. Its fringe were jiggling with the tremble of fear. It were a fine pillow, plump and pale green. The fringe were gold. Fine, fine mischief ... but wrong! So wrong! I were helpless, but I chased after my magic anyway. Of course it eluded me easily. The pillow were the hope. The troll had to take control of himself, pillow though he was, and find the fuzzletong berries. They were in the drawstring pouch the witch had flung along with her hat when she had arrived to find Briny Brook and me in her cottage. The pouch were leaning against a table leg two whiskers from where the big fat pillow trembled. I were young and helpless. I could not move. I had not yet mastered the art of speech that now I practice so well, as ye hear. I would have shouted, ‘Fuzzletong berry! Right next to you. Smash one on her forehead!’ But I couldn’t. The pillow’s fringe stopped jiggling. It seemed to be thinking. It turned and reached a paw, tapping it around, searching for the pouch! Oh, good! The paw found the pouch. It loosened the drawstring and dumped the berries out. It picked up a fat one and scooted to the witch. The pillow hauled itself to stand on end by climbing the witch. Luck it were that the troll were so monstrous. Being monstrous, he made a monstrous pillow, a pillow that when standing on end were taller than the witch. The pillow’s paw mashed the berry on the witch’s forehead. She blinked her eyes, squinted through her spectacles, stepped back and gasped. Then it were that my second mistake arrived.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE WATERWIZARD MEDDLES

  “What second mistake? Let me guess. Let me be the first to guess!” spouted Kar.

  “Kettle!” I snapped, not finding the right word, but one close enough to make Kar settle. I waved for the wand to continue.

  “New Harick, ye possess a fine command of strength,” hummed the wand in its wooden way while tilting a sort of a bow to me. “The second mistake. It were soon enough revealed by the waterwizard. Yes, by Briny Brook. For, ye see, returned from gone, he were standing in the doorway. He saw the witch with the smash of berry on her forehead. He saw the troll, a giant pillow scuttling in circles. ‘It be as I thought,’ said Briny Brook. ‘The wand has worked mischief here, too.’ I clutched at my elusive magic, then gave up and listened while secretly glowering at the waterwizard. He said, ‘Ye tried the wand, and it did that?’ He pointed at the pillow troll. “Yoss, I ... drink ... think so,’ answered the witch, blinking her eyes. The waterwizard nodded. ‘I thought as much had spilled,’ he said. ‘Babba Ja Harick, when I left ye, I flew straight as the swiftest current home to my beckoning pool in the oasis beyond the Blue Hills and discovered that all of its lovely blue grass had been turned to tar. Murky mischief. I plunged to the bottom of my pool to ponder. I nibbled on butterscotch drainpipe. Who would do such a thing? Why? I asked myself questions both liquid and solid. And when of a sudden the drainpipe reformed its missing parts, those that I had eaten, I knew that a new day had misted clear. This day. And with the dawning of this day, ye may note that I had formed a suspicion.’ He glared at me when he said that. I did nothing save secretly glower. ‘Wands will work murky mischief. That be well known. They need to be channeled into service, guided by stronger forces. That be why I have returned here to ye, Harick. I have brought ye wand control. When ye use this, the wand be powerless to do other than what ye command it to do.’ He rummaged in his black mooned and starred white pouchbag. While he did so, the witch manipulated several of the rings on her fingers while mumbling softly. The pillow scuttling on paws in circles poofed into night blue troll scuttling on claws and knees. The witch had unspelled him. The troll rushed by Briny Brook and out the door, shouting, ‘No more magic! No more magic!’ Then it were that Briny Brook brought out the Golden Shoe.”

  “I knew it! I knew it! Bek, the Golden Shoe!” spilled Kar, unable to contain her excitement.

  “Yoss, Golden ... blue ... Shoe,” I murmured, thrilled to awe that I was about to hear about a hazy legend, a legend almost completely unknown. Golden Shoe! One of the lost Gwer drollek stories! When we were youngling bendo dreen, how often had Kar and I plotted to be the first to rediscover the complete Gwer drollek of the Golden Shoe? Many times. When we met Babba Ja Harick for the first, then second, then third, then every other time, why had we never asked her about it? Too much other else was ever happening. Excitement, adventure, danger. Such was so. And now here we were, no longer bendo dreen younglings, but a new Harick and a shifting jrabe jroon, sitting on an island in the shadow of a mountainous volcano far north of north in the Wide Great Sea, and the wand was about to tell us about the Golden Shoe. I shivered a thrill.

  “Golden Shoe it were,” continued the wand. “The waterwizard told Babba Ja Harick never to use me unless she were wearing the Golden Shoe. He warned her, truth, not even to touch me unless she were wearing it. He whispered something else into her ear while glaring at me. She stumbled her thanks and asked if he needed help cleaning the tar from around his pool. Briny Brook drew himself tall and said that he had already taken care of those murky waters. Tar. It were my mistake. Why had I spelled the grass into tar? The meddling waterwizard never would have known of my future mischiefs. He would not have brought upon me the curse of the Golden Shoe. Blessing, I mean! Blessing! It controlled my mischief. How I wish ye had it now! But no! It be not needed. I be wise now and thoughtful. No more mischief. None. None now. But truth, there were more than enough mischief in me then.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

 
FORGETFUL WITCH

  “Golden Shoe. Please ... continue ... about ... about the ... the,” I struggled to find the words.

  “Golden Shoe!” helped Kar, jabbing me a good one in the ribs.

  “Golden Shoe,” said the wand with a wooden sigh. “Years passed. Bars of years. The witch hurried here, rushed there, ever on the whim of the crystal ball. The monster troll Gorge continued to grow and his thick night blue coat of hair slowly whitened as the years and the years and the years went by. Whenever the witch were away or frozen, I strained to move, to lift, to float. I strained to catch hold of the merest wisp of my elusive bolt magic. But elusive it remained when I were not in the witch’s bony grasp. And when she gripped me, she used me as a plaything, a toy! She would take the Golden Shoe from the window sill where she kept it, place it on the floor, and step her purple and black striped stockinged foot into it. Then she would search for me. She had no special elegant place where she kept me. No. She flung me away to land where I would when she were finished with me. Sometimes she had to find me in one of the boring troll’s basements. That was the worst and took the longest. Be it not understandable that my dream were to work some pleasing mischief on her? When she wore that Shoe, what did she do? Boring things, deadly dull. Playful to her, boring to me. She enjoyed rearranging her furniture or redesigning her cottage. Change the black licorice lattice to red, then back to black. Not to orange or green, something new, but black to red, red to black. Boring. She changed cookie shingles to candy brittle shingles. Boring. Nuts replace chocolate chips. Chips replace nuts. Boring. And worse, worse ever than that, she almost never took me anywhere with her. Only a few times. She never forgot to bring the ugly Golden Shoe. She should have brought me more places instead of almost always leaving me trapped in the cottage or in one of the boring basements of the boring troll where she sometimes liked to conjure boring cakes to share. But, oh, true, some days, some glorious few days in the cottage, she forgot to wear the Golden Shoe! Then were I unshackled. My bolt magic were mine! I rushed every time to throw a bolt before she might remember the Shoe. I transformed her door to tar. Ha! Yes. She dropped me and didn’t pick me up for a month. It were worth it. Another time, the best time, the troll were there, and I turned him into a patch of tar. Ha! Mischief! Fun! ... But wrong! So wrong! I vow so never to ...”