The Sword and the Sorceress

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Estrilda woke to the sound of argument from outside the cottage. Was that Nathyn’s voice? Her son sounded panicked. As the fog of sleep lifted, she heard a stranger’s voice, low and gruff” “Put that thing down before you hurt yourself, boy.”

“Not until you leave, villain.” Nathyn’s voice sounded shrill and thin in the night. His courage warmed Estrilda’s heart. She threw on a cloak and stepped out into the darkness.

Nathyn stood with his back to the door, struggling to hold up his father’s sword. Before them stood a pair of knights in dark plated steel. Armed and armored as they were, the two men staggered at the sight of her. “The sorceress!” One of them cried, lowering a pike.

“Silence!” Nathyn cried out, swinging the blade wildly. “You will not speak ill of my mother again.”

“Enough Nathyn,” Estrilda said. “This man names me truly.”

“See there, lad?” the other knight said, taking a step forward. “Now stand aside.”

But Nathyn wouldn’t relent. He took a quick step to place himself between the knight and his mother and raised the sword again. “Nathyn.” Estrilda’s voice was a gentle as a pale spring morning. “Don’t throw your life away on my account. Stand aside.” Teary eyes turned up to his mother. The sword in his shaking grip finally fell to the ground, embedding itself in the earth. “My cou rageous son,” Estrilda said with a smile. “I wish I could stay to see what an honorable man you will become.”

“So then,” one of the knight’s grunted. “You’ll come along peacefully?”

Estrilda’s smile widened as she raised her gaze to her assailants. “No, I don’t think I will.” She was glowing. The soldiers started shouting, but it was already too late. She was burning. Then, she was gone.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Leaves

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“It’s the worst,” Penny groaned. “His lectures just go on and, oh—”

Shade crept over their table as a slender tree stomped up beside them. “You ordered the tea?” a low, creaking voice asked.

“Yes,” Shay answered. Then to Penny, “So are you going to drop the class?”

Meanwhile, a branch reached over, set a steaming teapot onto the table and delicately lifted the lid. A cluster of green leaves shriveled and dried out, then fell gently into the water.

Penny shrugged. “I don’t know how else to get my transmutation requirement before graduation.”

A small mint shrub clambered up the tea plant and onto the table, then shook xirself so that a few green leaves fell into the pot as well.

“Give that four minutes,” the tea tree said, “and it will be perfect.”

“Cheers,” Shay replied.

But their servers did not leave immediately. Instead, the leaves rustled like a whisper and fanned out, like a curtain of discretion. “Pardon my eavesdropping,” that woody voice said, “but Ms. Delvaux, sometimes does independent studies for transmutation students.”

“The shop owner?” Penny replied, “Really?”

The plants nodded together enthusiastically.. “She’s very good,” the tea tree said. “After all, she made us!”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

By Franz Eugen Köhler, Köhler’s Medizinal-Pflanzen – List of Koehler Images, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=255290

Newt

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“Cohen!” 

Not today, the boy thought. He knew the tone in his mother’s voice meant a bath. But he was ready. He had been practicing. “Abra ka-dabra, zala-ka-zoot!” Cohen said. “Turn this boy into a newt!” A spark, a pop, a puff, and he had transformed. 

Newt-Cohen peered between the leaves of the shrub he had been hiding behind. On the porch, his mother scanned the property with predatory keenness, but passed right over his hiding spot without even a pause. 

He was free!

Through the garden, out the gate, down the hill to the creek. It was one of Cohen’s favorite places to play. Fresh, cool water, soft, squishy mud, and somehow Cohen knew instinctively that the river bank was a variable candy store of yummy bugs and worms. 

Cohen froze. The shadows at the base of a nearby bush emanated a primal menace. 

He should flee. He should change back. He just needed to remember the words. 

A serpentine head emerged from the undergrowth. Dark, beady eyes and violent green scales.

Cohen was panicking, but still couldn’t find the words. 

The snake opened its mouth.

“Cohen Eidelberg!” It shrieked in his mother’s voice. “You come home this instant!”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Hope

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“Are they fresh?” I asked. A colorful flame danced in each vial, but many flickered fitfully in a way that made me nervous

The man at the cart clutched his heart with a practiced gesture that illustrated how wounded he was. What do you take me for? You think I would set up here on the corner to sell delusions or mania, something like that?”

He had named my exact fear, disarming me. Of course Hope could be incredible, exultation tinged with the risk of despair. But everyone has heard stories about what happens to a person with a bad Hope. I fidgeted, not wanting to linger here playing games. So I said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“They’re good, the vendor insisted. “I picked them up from the Dream Docks this morning.”

It was as good a source as you could ask for if it was true. That was where I had sold my last dreams all those years ago. “Fine,” I grunted.

“So you’ll buy?”

I almost walked away then. Maybe I should have. But it had been so long since I had any Hope. Colors danced within the glass, dangerous and inviting.

I picked up a vial.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Curse

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“What just happened?” she asked, rubbing her forehead.

He sighed picking up the golfball that was rolling around at their feet, “It’s the curse.”

“You were serious about that?”

A somber nod. “Every time I sneeze, someone around me gets hurt.”

“But where did the golfball even come from?”

He shrugged, “From a black hole, a magic portal, the universe’s butthole. It’s just my bad luck.”

For a moment they sat in silence. He fiddled with the golfball. She rubbed the growing welt on her forehead.

“So how do you break it?” she asked.

“Well,” he glanced at her nervously. “I’m supposed to,”

“What?”

“A kiss.”

“Oh,” she straightened, “you mean—”

“No, no,” he stammered, “I wasn’t trying to—”

“You mean you don’t want to kiss me?”

“I . . . that’s not . . .” he grinned, then quickly wiped the smile from his face. “I just wouldn’t want you to feel pressured.”

She shifted a little closer. “Well there’s no harm in trying, right?”

He shrugged, nodded, smiled. “Right.”

They leaned in, paused. Their eyes met, then so did their lips.

Magical.

“Did it work?”

“I don’t think so,” he answered. “We better try again.”

She grinned. “You’re full of shit.” They kissed again.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Millennials

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He smiled broadly as she approached. “Wasn’t sure you’d come.”

She shrugged, settling into her chair. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know, might be busy or have trouble finding the place or just … you know, not be interested.”

“I’ve never missed one of our appointments before, have I?” she said frankly.

“Appointments.” He chewed on the word, swallowed it reluctantly. “Well, how’s the last century been for you?”

A frown. “Perhaps you should be a little more discrete.”

“Huh? Oh, about the time thing?”

“You remember what happened in Byzantium…”

She was always cute when she was flustered. “Hah! How could I forget! But folks aren’t that superstitious these days. You tell one of these so-called ‘millennials’ that you’ve actually been alive for millennia, they’ll think it’s a pickup line.”

A flat stare. “Do you spend a lot of time trying to pick up young people?”

“I knew you were gonna go there.” Voice low, teeth clenched. “Atom bombs, lunar landings, global warming, the internet—all the miracles and catastrophes of the last century, and you want to talk about her?”

Slow, anguished words. “Perhaps we are both selfish and narrow-minded. Perhaps, despite the evidence, we are both still human.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Binding

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Silence filled the space between the mage and his client. Alden knew his craft well, so it was very rare that he had repeat customers, and neither he nor Perin felt comfortable navigating the situation. He moved to the northeastern corner of the house, knelt at the base of the corner post and began carving the rune of binding in the freshly sawed boards.

“It’s a good house,” Alden offered over his shoulder. “Well built. The carpenters outdid themselves. I don’t know if you’ll even need magic to keep this house standing.” Receiving no response, Alden bent back over the rune to begin his spell.

“You said that last time,” Perin commented. It was true of course. Alden made that remark to most of the new homeowners who hired him. It usually made them smile. But Perin was frowning deeper than ever. “The old house is still standing,” he said. “The carpenters did their job well and so did you. I’m the one who ruined everything.”

Alden hesitated, “What’s broken can be mended. It’s not my magic, but maybe it’s yours.

Perin’s eyes shone, but he answered, “No. She deserves that house. Maybe now it can finally be a home.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Popcorn

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“What do you think this smells like?”

He recoils initially, then leans forward and sniffs. “Popcorn.”

She shakes her head, grinning slyly and takes back the paper. “No, it doesn’t.”

A shrug. “Well of course it doesn’t. It’s a sticker. How’s it supposed to smell like butter and salt and all that?  It just smells like popcorn ‘cuz that’s the best they can do.”

“No,” she says again.

“No?”

She leans forward conspiratorially, eyes bright. “You just think it smells like popcorn because there’s a picture of popcorn on the sticker, so you smell what you’re expecting. But it really smells like something else entirely. Try again.”

“It’s a scratch-n-sniff.”

“Close your eyes.”

He blinks.

A smack on the arm. “Just do it. Close your eyes.” He sighs, but does as instructed. “Clear your mind. Inhale.”

With a roll of his closed eyes, he breathes in, expecting nothing. He smells smoke. Wood smoke. Dirt and pine needles. Bug spray and sunscreen. Fish roasting over a campfire. Then he hears wind. Rustling branches and creaking trees. He feels mottled sunlight flickering over his eyes. There are footsteps approaching from behind.

He opens his eyes. She’s staring expectantly.

“What did you smell?”

     *     *     *

Photo by Mockup Graphics on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox