<<Chapter 1 <Prev Next>
The wizard wasn’t angry. The wizard seldom got angry like normal people. Things just happened, and the wizard took the things in, and sometimes angry things happened. Angry words, Chuck corrected himself. Sometimkes angry words happened.
Chuck tried to remember the words. They were slick inside his brain. The wizard said Chuck had very little aptitude, but that effort went only as unrewarded as morality might dictate. Chuck supposed that sounded alright, if anything did.
Chuck never got tired of ham. The wizard said he was born tired of it, but that to make a goldmine required a few dozen hams and no reason to waste ham was a good reason. The wizard winked every time he said that, and Chuck winced at the idea of a wizard with one eye closed. Chuck could not recall why this idea bothered him.
They ate the hams and they made the fairy gold and they showed the locals what magic looked like, for a given definition of local, anyway.
Yesterday’s locals had been an ugly bunch. They hobbled. They stunk. Some had grizzled, scraggly beards that made Chuck think of waxed cats rolling in dirt. Some had patchy discolored skin that made Chuck think of a blast in the desert where lightning struck a blasphemer and left a pool of scratchy glass for yards around. Some had limbs that dangled and danced on the ends of strings, cackling in the flames of deceit where red-rimmed eyes gazed out of dull coastal latitudes without truth or kindness or hope, where demons cluttered already packed dirt daub huts of the slack-jawed dead.
Chuck shivered. Chuck did not like the place, and would be glad to be shut of it. From the feel of that shiver, Chuck suspected the wizard was as ready to leave, but of course Chuck did not know.
A wizard must remain inscrutable, the wizard said, or else what would be the attraction? The next one might be different. The woods were fading. The pines and snow faded into memory and the cave stones took on a smoother look. The lichens faded and yellowed. Heat began to radiate from every surface. The valley flattened and the air dried. The damp chill that had found its way into Chuck’s marrow flitted out into air, evanesced into plasma, and sung its way into a small eternity. Chuck sighed and relaxed his muscles.
The worst over, Chuck walked through the sand from the hut to the cave. The wizard was already preparing for tonight’s visitors. Chuck picked up the bucket and poured the ham out into a hole. He kicked sand over it. If he left it there until sunset, it would turn into a small, paper fan that he could use while he waited for the arrival.
Outside the cave, Chuck found a copse of grass struggling to maintain a feeble grip in the sand. Chuck stripped the seeds from the grass and carried them back to the shack. Chuck scattered the seeds across the sand. Indistinct shapes, possibly puffs of smoke, climbed out of the splintering wood and ran to the seeds. They ate hungrily, pecking and tearing the seeds and squeaking angry squeaks. Chuck set out a bowl and poured water from a flask. The smokey things, now fat and slow and leaving greasy stains on the sand, drifted to the edge of the water and sucked it up.
Chuck climbed on the roof of the shack and surveyed around him. The sand resolved into grass, and then a river snaked its way across from left to right. Reeds grew up around the river and hardy green shoots poked through the mud. Buildings transparently pricked reality and bled into existence. Behind him, Chuck felt an ocean of sand. The heat blew into Chuck’s back. The smokey puffs, now gorged and sopping wet, slobbered up the side of the shack and plopped down carelessly near Chuck.
Distracted by these new sights, Chuck absentmindedly stroked one of the smokey patches. When he moved his hand away, the gray smoke had become fine hairs. The breeze off the sand whipped them up and dropped them down.
At the river, a man shouted. Chuck cocked his head and looked as the man wandered over to the shack.
“Are you local?” the man asked.
“No.” Chuck shook his head.
“What kind of house is this?” The man asked.
Chuck looked down at the shack. It was constructed of wood, lashed together with ropes and daubed with mud. It had no floor, only packed black sand and clay. The door hung at an angle, as Chuck hated to close it when they were traveling. The damp made the wood swell and the dry made the ropes holding it to the shack shrink. He couldn’t win.
Chuck shrugged at the man. “The house kind of house.”
“Who lives here?” The man seemed agitated. He didn’t quite say “who lives here?” It was something bigger than that, but that was the gist, you know. The gist was, “who lives here?”
Chuck thought. He indicated himself with a thumb to his forehead, as he had been taught as a boy. He looked around for the wizard, but he wasn’t apparent. “I do,” Chuck said. “And the wizard lives in the cave.”
Chuck pointed his smallest finger at the cave, indicating highest respect for the wizard therein.
The man looked where Chuck indicated. “That’s not a cave,” he said.
Chuck looked at the cave. The man was not, it seemed, wrong. The cave appeared to have become a small, cubical building made of heavy black bricks. Chuck scratched the back of his head.
“No,” said Chuck. “That’s more of a-” He couldn’t find the word. “Ziggurat,” he finally guessed. It felt right, but was completely wrong.
The man whipped around to face the cave. He seemed distressed by something. The man pounded back toward the river, clearly in a rush to get back to whatever he was doing. Chuck scratched idly.
The wizard walked out of the cave. He looked approvingly at the cave and the shack. Chuck was well pleased, although he felt certain he hadn’t done anything. Probably for the best, he thought.