The Unfortunate Apprentice:The Story of the Burnt Wand
Back in the day when magic was passed down from mage to apprentice, Uldrich the younger was apprenticed to the mage Borstad. The mage had serious misgivings about taking on the flighty youngster; in fact he thought Uldrich was poorly suited to just about everything, especially the fine art of building a partnership with magic. But he did so as a favour to Uldrich the Elder, the boy's father and his 'clansleddir', the chief clansman of their tribe. Uldrich was impatient, undisciplined, and had long taken advantage of his position as the clansleddir's son. He had led a life of privilege, bullying his peers and the villagers to get whatever he wanted, or to act out his spite or whimsy. His father had had enough of smoothing over his son’s transgressions with his clansmen, paying restitution and granting favours to keep the peace. He hoped, prayed, that the mage's lessons would instill some maturity in the boy. Enough for the boy to one day become the clansleddir.
Uldrich barely tolerated the old mage's pedantic lessons and incessant stories about the history and origin of the components of magic. 'Understanding history brings power over the future', 'true sight comes from blindness', 'to use magic you must be magic' and any number of other cryptic sayings filled Uldrich's head to the point of distraction, and after a couple of weeks he could barely kept his impatience in check. 'Find my way by losing my way', Uldrich thought, 'there is more sense in the droppings of the aurochs. By Odin's beard, if I hear another one of that old man's 'thrachids', I will cut my wrists.'
Uldrich only paid attention enough to pick up the most rudimentary of magical skills. He did not have time to 'build a partnership' with the magical realms. He just wanted what that partnership had to offer. If Borstad demonstrated a technique or had him write down an incantation to be studied and memorized, he paid attention, but the rest of the time he daydreamed about what he would do when he had the skill. He pondered how he could acquire the benefits of this ‘partnership’ without going through the pain of Borstad’s incessant diatribe.
One day, he arrived for his lesson as usual, but the old mage was not in the workshop. Uldrich stood in annoyance, looking at the collection of weird specimens, liquids and powders in bottles and leather pokes lining the shelves. And the books! All sizes and colours, leather-bound and loose leaf, and mountains of scrolls in all kinds of scripts and runes. There was a lectern which barely held a huge tome and past that set into the wall was a fireplace, bellows and forge. The fireplace looked hot, but obviously Borstad had not stoked it yet this morning. Uldrich sighed, wanting to leave but knowing The Elder (No one but his mother called his father 'Uldrich'. Out of respect he was "The Elder" or "Clansleddir" or sometimes more familiarly just "Leddir") would hear if he didn't show up for a lesson, and that would mean a punishment. (And his father's punishments were legendary - not just beatings, oh yes, there were those, but if you really annoyed him, he could be much more imaginative. Why, he once tied a....) Uldrich shuddered and blocked the thought. Better wait for old Borsty. He wandered lazily around the workshop, flipping a page here, lifting a dusty poke there, idly wondering about the unfamiliar scripts and runes marked on them in chalk or charcoal. How curious that it seemed he could just rub the label off, and then how would you know what was in there? Speaking of curious, what was the glow coming from that tub of sticks just on the other side of that rickety old lectern?
Uldrich bent over to take a closer look at the glow in the tub. It was too bright to be a reflection from the forge. He reached around the lectern to pick up one of the sticks, and just as he was closing his fist on one of them, he felt a jolt of energy that made him pull his hand back in spasm. His elbow hit the lectern and it wobbled. Thinking it would topple over, he reached out to steady it, but his still spasmed arm and hand did not go quite where he intended, and instead of getting a grip on the huge book, his fingers struck its edge, adding to its momentum towards the forge. Uldrich gasped in alarm and took a step forward to get his other hand on the falling book. His foot hit the tub and it skittered across the floor, tipping over as it hit the edge of the raised hearth of the forge. Like drunken fairies spilling out of pub at closing time, the sticks flew out literally in every direction, bouncing off bottles and shelves, as the tub came to rest on its side. Distracted by the crash of the tub and the flying, glowing sticks, Uldrich momentarily forgot about the falling lectern and its heavy cargo, until he heard it hit the forge. He turned just in time to see the book slide into the fireplace with a puff of ash and coals. The book fell open and some of the disturbed coals tumbled onto open pages, threatening to catch the dried parchment on fire. Several of the flying sticks bounced through the forge, and one came to rest right on the open, smouldering book. Uldrich heard a distant creak as he looked around at the mess. Borstad was coming! 'Tyr's tits!' he cursed, righting the lectern with his good hand while reaching for the tub with the other. As soon as the tub was upright, which took him a moment, because his hand was still numb, the flying sticks reversed their course and flew back into the tub. Turning towards the smoking book in the fireplace, and narrowly missing getting a stick in the eye, he picked up the book, brushed off the hot coals, slammed it shut and put it back on the lectern. He noticed one of the sticks poking out of it. It was odd that the others seemed to have been recalled to the tub, but this one was stuck in the book like a bookmark. He opened the book and saw that it was indeed stuck to one of the pages, like the page had melted on to it. He cursed again at the holes the coals had burned through several pages. Before he could decide what to do, he heard footsteps. He cursed harder, and on impulse ripped the stick and burned pages from the book and stuffed them inside his cloak. He eased the book shut just as Borstad came through the inside door. The mage could see Uldrich with his hands on the book, on the lectern, like he was about to give a speech. 'Uldrich, what are you doing?' Asked the mage, in a rather conversational tone, and before Uldrich could answer, 'Take your hands from the grimoire, if you please. You are not yet ready for its secrets.'
Uldrich looked down at his hands and dropped them to his sides. A little too quickly, he thought.
'There will be no lessons today. I am not well. I must brew a potion for my illness and rest. Go home and practice your incantations.'
Uldrich carefully left the workshop, and headed home, his thoughts swirling and his heart racing. Surely Borstad would notice the damage; it was a matter of when, not "if". And then the Elder would know, and then... Uldrich shuddered again, and cursed again. That meant punishment.
It was a few days before Uldrich took a look at what he had jammed into his pocket. His apprehension at almost getting caught had mellowed to excitement. Borstad had sent a message saying not to come for lessons unless he was called. Apparently the old mage was going to be out of the way for a time. But between his father's demands, and his own necessity of keeping the clan's youngergrop in line, he hadn't really thought much about the potential of the flying fairy-stick and the few half-burnt pages he had got away with. Today, however, he was bored, his father being away hunting or trading or some such thing, and when he thrust his hands into his pocket, his fingers closed around the stick, crunching on the surviving parchment. He gingerly pulled it out to have a look, remembering the glowing, flying stick that almost took out his left eye.
The stick was still stuck to the page, or rather, stuck in the page. The stick and the page seemed to be melted together somehow, like they were made from the same piece of material. But it was obvious that they weren't - the stick was wood, and the parchment was, well, parchment. The stick still glowed slightly. Uldrich put the stick and bunch of parchment on the ground, and took a closer look. The bundle started uncurling, and shortly lay nearly flat on the ground. The page with the stick in it lay on top of the others, and Uldrich could see now it was covered in strange symbols, including runes he had been learning about from Borstad. Parts of the scripts were missing though, having been burnt away by the hot coals. All the pages were covered in symbols and small diagrams. He squinted and tried to make sense of it, and then realized there was a larger picture in the background, as large as the whole page. It appeared to be a man in a long cloak, his arms outstretched, and in his right hand was one of those wild sticks. He seemed to be pointing it at something, but Uldrich could not tell what it was because that part of the page had a large hole in it. The runes and scripts and lists covered the page, covering the picture, but the mage in the background was certainly there, if you focused on him just so.
Uldrich studied the picture and the page for a few minutes. Then a thought occurred to him - could that man in the picture be using the stick to cast a spell? Spell casting was an important skill, but only the mages were allowed to do it. It was too dangerous for the untrained to invoke the magic needed for spell casting was the answer given to those who asked why. If the man in the drawing was a mage casting a spell, and using a stick to do it, (and Uldrich leapt to this conclusion in a flash), then this stick, stuck in the page, must be a mage's wand, and the page it was stuck to must be instructions on how to use it, and it must be meant for him, because everyone knew that magic wands had a mind of their own, and the wand had let itself be captured by him.
This of course was only partially true. The wand hand not been captured by him, but by the book. The wands in the tub were proto-wands, being "sch'tached", a sort of magical steeping. The tub contained several days worth of Borstad's work - it was a magical contraption, a tap, or portal, into the source of magic. He was preparing the 'sticks' to become fully fledged wands. One of the complement of spells in the tub bound the proto-wands to that space, which is why they returned on their own after the tub was set upright. They would steep in the tub for several weeks until they had absorbed the correct amount of magical energy, after which they would undergo more magical treatments before becoming properly operating mage's tools. Borstad was a wand-maker of renown, and he often carried wands when he travelled, for trading with other mages. But the wands in the tub were not ready for use, they had not absorbed their full measure of magic from the sch'tach-tub, they had not been tuned, and they did not have their controls (runes or crystals) bound to them. They were in a state of... disarray, confusion. They were... young. And Uldrich had interrupted the sch'taching when he tipped over the tub. Who knew what effect that would have? They were as undisciplined as Uldrich, and in the wrong hands, they could be very dangerous. The wand had not been seeking Uldrich when it fatefully plopped onto the open grimoire. It had been captured, or bound, by the grimoire, as the book sought to repair itself by reaching for the particles of parchment floating away in the smoke. It called the particles back to itself, and the proto-wand, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, got caught in that spell, and was integrated into the structure of the parchment page. Once Uldrich had removed the pages from the book, the page was removed from the source of magic that the book tapped into, and it would not restore itself without a measure of time and rest. The wand would remain captive until that happened.
But Uldrich knew none of this - his mind was reeling with the possibilities. His own wand! By Odin's Beard, this would change things. No more lessons. No more chores (a flick of his wand would take care of that), no more surly children trying to get the better of him. If they gave him trouble, he would take care of them with another flick. Ha ha! The fun he would have. He gathered up the pages, ignoring the magical tingle in his hands when he touched them. He had to find somewhere private and figure out how to use this thing before his father returned, and before Borstad discovered the damage he had done, or called him back for lessons.
After several days of studying the pages, and by consulting the other books that Borstad had loaned him, Uldrich came to the conclusion that the pages were indeed instructions for the casting of several spells. One was levitation, another was directionality (at least, something to do with finding or giving geographical direction, it was hard to tell, since a portion was missing), and the third, also missing the last few runes, seemed to be about projecting or throwing, or maybe teleportation. This last one had potential.
Eventually, through trial and error, Uldrich was able to make objects levitate and spin in one direction, and then the other, by combining the first two spells. The direction spell confused him, he did not see its point or usefulness. Levitating and spinning objects was fun for a while, but he wanted something he could use to show off his new found power. He went over the scripts and runes again and again. He had to have something to show his father when he returned, which could be any day, any moment, really. And Borstad would forgive him his trespass if only he could show some real progress in his studies. What better way to impress them both than to be able to cast a spell? Then the fun would start.
He wandered into the village square and felt the excitement of the folks there. The Elder was returning from the hunt! He could hear the horses, many more than usual, not far off. Then, from the other end of the village, Borstad bellowed "Uldrich!"
'Ing's incessant invocations !' Uldrich swore. He was caught. Nothing to show his father, everything to confess to the mage.
'Uldrich where are my pages? And where is the youngenvand?' Borstad strode into the square and caught Uldrich by the collar as the clansleddir's hunting party hurtled into the village. The hunt had been exceptional, there would be meat for the winter! But not just the kills, there were wild horses too. These increased the wealth of the village significantly, for they could be traded for all manner of supplies.
Borstad shook Uldrich by the collar. 'The pages and the yougenvand, now,' he hissed at the boy, with an intensity that was frightening.
Uldrich slowly pulled the wand and the crumpled parchments from his pocket, but before he had them fully out, the hunters swept into the square. The villagers cheered at the bounty being paraded before them. Borstad looked up at the spectacle and Uldrich looked down at the parchment, fluttering in the breeze created by the passing stampede of men and horses. It was the page with the mage in the background. The drawing seemed to be looking at him. The head turned. Or was that a trick of light or the breeze? The arm flexed slightly, and the wand glowed ever so briefly. Thoughts raced through Uldrich's head. The mage on the parchment winked.
It was now or never. Uldrich took the proto -wand in his right hand and held the parchment in his left. He raised his arm like the mage in the drawing. The magical tools seemed to sense his intent and started to glow. Uldrich started reading the spells from the page, quietly, and then more quickly, then louder. Borstad finally noticed. 'By the serpent's scales, what...what are you...' he muttered. He lost his grip on Uldrich's collar and took a step backward. 'No... you can't invoke them together without...'
One of the parchment pages fluttered free, right into Borstad's face. Startled, The old mage took a step back, his foot hitting a stone, and he ended up on the ground, winded.
Uldrich drew a deep breath, and shouted the damaged incantations as he drew back his arm, and with a mighty flick, loosed whatever demented Magick he happened to have conjured. The bolt started in the grimoire pages, which turned to ash, and travelled up U's arm, across his shoulders, down his right arm, out through the proto-wand, which exploded in a shower of angry flankers, straight across the square at his father as if on purpose. Only the Elder's hunter's instinct saved him, as he reflexively took a knee and at the same time raised his greaved hand, palm outward. The bolt struck the metal of greave, paused an instant in the clansleddir's hand, and shot out the five fingers into five lesser bolts. The first bolt shot out of the pinky and disappeared into the sky.
Borstad took the bolt from the index finger in the head, which made his hair and beard glow for several weeks afterward. Folks said he was different after that, but since no one could really say what he was like before, it was difficult to say what had changed. He did, however, spend a lot more time in seclusion after that day.
The bolt from the greave's middle finger traveled along the line of pack horses, which were carrying the animals killed in the hunt. The dead animals reanimated and started galloping and cavorting around the square like a macabre May Day dance, gradually rising into the air. The villagers scattered, screaming. Every so often the dead animals changed direction, and each time the grisly dance reversed, body parts detached, flying outward and crashing into whatever was in the way. Soon only the heads remained in the crazy dance. Animal blood and guts were everywhere. This continued for quite a while, until Borstad had recovered enough to make them stop.
The fourth finger's bolt hit the line of wild horses, which levitated a few inches off the ground for a moment, floated to the ground, and continued floating into into the ground as if the earth had turned to mud. The two that were standing on earth worked themselves free, slipped their reins, and bolted to freedom, knocking over several villagers in the process. The horses that were standing on bedrock sank further as they struggled, until they disappeared completely. Their bones were found the following spring in a little valley, about half a day's ride to the south-west. It was assumed it was those horses because of the runes embossed on bones of their foreheads. After that, the valley was considered to be haunted.
The bolt from the thumb went straight down, between the Elder's legs and into the ground. It is said the Uldrich The Elder never fathered another child after that day, and it became a matter of discussion and argument for many years as to whether it was because the bolt of magical energy had done something to him, or because his son had caused such chaos.
Uldrich sat on the ground, dazed. The stunned silence was eventually broken by the villagers’ cursing and wailing, his father's voice carrying over everything.
'By the bones and hooves of Sleipnir, what foul...' He stopped and stood as he saw the burnt wand in his son's hand, realization dawning on him. He slapped away a pair of flying rabbit’s heads, and deliberately stepped towards Uldrich the younger.
And then the directive: 'Uldrich, go home and wait.'
'For me' was implied.
Several hours later, the Elder stood in the council hall, facing his son. His wife stood behind him. She wept silently, knowing what was surely coming, for this transgression could not be paid off or smoothed over with favours. The village council stood at distance.
'There will be no punishment' he said, and Uldrich looked up, puzzled.
'There is no punishment for this, foolish boy. The council wants your head. You have quite likely sentenced the clan to a slow death this winter, for no one will eat meat that has been charmed.' He paused. Uldrich knew better than to speak.
'Only another successful hunt will save us, and the migrations have nearly finished, which you should know will make it difficult, but I have agreed to take whoever will hunt with me and go. I will not return until Odin smiles on us and grants us his favour.' He paused again, like he was trying to figure out how to put this next bit. His gaze hardened.
'You are banished.' His mother gasped and fell to her knees. This was worse than punishment. At least punishment had an end to it. Banishment was forever, a complete severing of ties to the clan. Uldrich had lost his heritage, his identity. Members of the clan were forbidden to help him, and would shun him if they ever came across him again. Maybe he would be fortunate enough to find a clan or village that would take him in before winter. Maybe his survival skills would see him through the winter. In those skills, however, he was sorely lacking.
The Elder knew this, and knew that Uldrich would not see the spring.
'Your name is forfeit, and its rights and claims. You are no longer Uldrich the younger of clan Uldrich. You are now...' he paused as if he was just now deciding this, but the naming of a banished clansman was a custom they did not ignore. 'You are now T'un..., T'un the Unfortunate, because it is unfortunate that you did not pay more attention to the lessons being taught you, instead of taking advantage of my being clansleddir and bullying your peers. You will have until sunup to be out of the village. Go by the east valley. I will hunt to the west.' He turned to leave, but before he reached the door, the tears were streaming down his face.
•••••
copyright 2019 W. Lyndon Brown all rights reserved
Last edited Jan 9, 2019, 2:36pm EST
Back in the day when magic was passed down from mage to apprentice, Uldrich the younger was apprenticed to the mage Borstad. The mage had serious misgivings about taking on the flighty youngster; in fact he thought Uldrich was poorly suited to just about everything, especially the fine art of building a partnership with magic. But he did so as a favour to Uldrich the Elder, the boy's father and his 'clansleddir', the chief clansman of their tribe. Uldrich was impatient, undisciplined, and had long taken advantage of his position as the clansleddir's son. He had led a life of privilege, bullying his peers and the villagers to get whatever he wanted, or to act out his spite or whimsy. His father had had enough of smoothing over his son’s transgressions with his clansmen, paying restitution and granting favours to keep the peace. He hoped, prayed, that the mage's lessons would instill some maturity in the boy. Enough for the boy to one day become the clansleddir.
Uldrich barely tolerated the old mage's pedantic lessons and incessant stories about the history and origin of the components of magic. 'Understanding history brings power over the future', 'true sight comes from blindness', 'to use magic you must be magic' and any number of other cryptic sayings filled Uldrich's head to the point of distraction, and after a couple of weeks he could barely kept his impatience in check. 'Find my way by losing my way', Uldrich thought, 'there is more sense in the droppings of the aurochs. By Odin's beard, if I hear another one of that old man's 'thrachids', I will cut my wrists.'
Uldrich only paid attention enough to pick up the most rudimentary of magical skills. He did not have time to 'build a partnership' with the magical realms. He just wanted what that partnership had to offer. If Borstad demonstrated a technique or had him write down an incantation to be studied and memorized, he paid attention, but the rest of the time he daydreamed about what he would do when he had the skill. He pondered how he could acquire the benefits of this ‘partnership’ without going through the pain of Borstad’s incessant diatribe.
One day, he arrived for his lesson as usual, but the old mage was not in the workshop. Uldrich stood in annoyance, looking at the collection of weird specimens, liquids and powders in bottles and leather pokes lining the shelves. And the books! All sizes and colours, leather-bound and loose leaf, and mountains of scrolls in all kinds of scripts and runes. There was a lectern which barely held a huge tome and past that set into the wall was a fireplace, bellows and forge. The fireplace looked hot, but obviously Borstad had not stoked it yet this morning. Uldrich sighed, wanting to leave but knowing The Elder (No one but his mother called his father 'Uldrich'. Out of respect he was "The Elder" or "Clansleddir" or sometimes more familiarly just "Leddir") would hear if he didn't show up for a lesson, and that would mean a punishment. (And his father's punishments were legendary - not just beatings, oh yes, there were those, but if you really annoyed him, he could be much more imaginative. Why, he once tied a....) Uldrich shuddered and blocked the thought. Better wait for old Borsty. He wandered lazily around the workshop, flipping a page here, lifting a dusty poke there, idly wondering about the unfamiliar scripts and runes marked on them in chalk or charcoal. How curious that it seemed he could just rub the label off, and then how would you know what was in there? Speaking of curious, what was the glow coming from that tub of sticks just on the other side of that rickety old lectern?
Uldrich bent over to take a closer look at the glow in the tub. It was too bright to be a reflection from the forge. He reached around the lectern to pick up one of the sticks, and just as he was closing his fist on one of them, he felt a jolt of energy that made him pull his hand back in spasm. His elbow hit the lectern and it wobbled. Thinking it would topple over, he reached out to steady it, but his still spasmed arm and hand did not go quite where he intended, and instead of getting a grip on the huge book, his fingers struck its edge, adding to its momentum towards the forge. Uldrich gasped in alarm and took a step forward to get his other hand on the falling book. His foot hit the tub and it skittered across the floor, tipping over as it hit the edge of the raised hearth of the forge. Like drunken fairies spilling out of pub at closing time, the sticks flew out literally in every direction, bouncing off bottles and shelves, as the tub came to rest on its side. Distracted by the crash of the tub and the flying, glowing sticks, Uldrich momentarily forgot about the falling lectern and its heavy cargo, until he heard it hit the forge. He turned just in time to see the book slide into the fireplace with a puff of ash and coals. The book fell open and some of the disturbed coals tumbled onto open pages, threatening to catch the dried parchment on fire. Several of the flying sticks bounced through the forge, and one came to rest right on the open, smouldering book. Uldrich heard a distant creak as he looked around at the mess. Borstad was coming! 'Tyr's tits!' he cursed, righting the lectern with his good hand while reaching for the tub with the other. As soon as the tub was upright, which took him a moment, because his hand was still numb, the flying sticks reversed their course and flew back into the tub. Turning towards the smoking book in the fireplace, and narrowly missing getting a stick in the eye, he picked up the book, brushed off the hot coals, slammed it shut and put it back on the lectern. He noticed one of the sticks poking out of it. It was odd that the others seemed to have been recalled to the tub, but this one was stuck in the book like a bookmark. He opened the book and saw that it was indeed stuck to one of the pages, like the page had melted on to it. He cursed again at the holes the coals had burned through several pages. Before he could decide what to do, he heard footsteps. He cursed harder, and on impulse ripped the stick and burned pages from the book and stuffed them inside his cloak. He eased the book shut just as Borstad came through the inside door. The mage could see Uldrich with his hands on the book, on the lectern, like he was about to give a speech. 'Uldrich, what are you doing?' Asked the mage, in a rather conversational tone, and before Uldrich could answer, 'Take your hands from the grimoire, if you please. You are not yet ready for its secrets.'
Uldrich looked down at his hands and dropped them to his sides. A little too quickly, he thought.
'There will be no lessons today. I am not well. I must brew a potion for my illness and rest. Go home and practice your incantations.'
Uldrich carefully left the workshop, and headed home, his thoughts swirling and his heart racing. Surely Borstad would notice the damage; it was a matter of when, not "if". And then the Elder would know, and then... Uldrich shuddered again, and cursed again. That meant punishment.
It was a few days before Uldrich took a look at what he had jammed into his pocket. His apprehension at almost getting caught had mellowed to excitement. Borstad had sent a message saying not to come for lessons unless he was called. Apparently the old mage was going to be out of the way for a time. But between his father's demands, and his own necessity of keeping the clan's youngergrop in line, he hadn't really thought much about the potential of the flying fairy-stick and the few half-burnt pages he had got away with. Today, however, he was bored, his father being away hunting or trading or some such thing, and when he thrust his hands into his pocket, his fingers closed around the stick, crunching on the surviving parchment. He gingerly pulled it out to have a look, remembering the glowing, flying stick that almost took out his left eye.
The stick was still stuck to the page, or rather, stuck in the page. The stick and the page seemed to be melted together somehow, like they were made from the same piece of material. But it was obvious that they weren't - the stick was wood, and the parchment was, well, parchment. The stick still glowed slightly. Uldrich put the stick and bunch of parchment on the ground, and took a closer look. The bundle started uncurling, and shortly lay nearly flat on the ground. The page with the stick in it lay on top of the others, and Uldrich could see now it was covered in strange symbols, including runes he had been learning about from Borstad. Parts of the scripts were missing though, having been burnt away by the hot coals. All the pages were covered in symbols and small diagrams. He squinted and tried to make sense of it, and then realized there was a larger picture in the background, as large as the whole page. It appeared to be a man in a long cloak, his arms outstretched, and in his right hand was one of those wild sticks. He seemed to be pointing it at something, but Uldrich could not tell what it was because that part of the page had a large hole in it. The runes and scripts and lists covered the page, covering the picture, but the mage in the background was certainly there, if you focused on him just so.
Uldrich studied the picture and the page for a few minutes. Then a thought occurred to him - could that man in the picture be using the stick to cast a spell? Spell casting was an important skill, but only the mages were allowed to do it. It was too dangerous for the untrained to invoke the magic needed for spell casting was the answer given to those who asked why. If the man in the drawing was a mage casting a spell, and using a stick to do it, (and Uldrich leapt to this conclusion in a flash), then this stick, stuck in the page, must be a mage's wand, and the page it was stuck to must be instructions on how to use it, and it must be meant for him, because everyone knew that magic wands had a mind of their own, and the wand had let itself be captured by him.
This of course was only partially true. The wand hand not been captured by him, but by the book. The wands in the tub were proto-wands, being "sch'tached", a sort of magical steeping. The tub contained several days worth of Borstad's work - it was a magical contraption, a tap, or portal, into the source of magic. He was preparing the 'sticks' to become fully fledged wands. One of the complement of spells in the tub bound the proto-wands to that space, which is why they returned on their own after the tub was set upright. They would steep in the tub for several weeks until they had absorbed the correct amount of magical energy, after which they would undergo more magical treatments before becoming properly operating mage's tools. Borstad was a wand-maker of renown, and he often carried wands when he travelled, for trading with other mages. But the wands in the tub were not ready for use, they had not absorbed their full measure of magic from the sch'tach-tub, they had not been tuned, and they did not have their controls (runes or crystals) bound to them. They were in a state of... disarray, confusion. They were... young. And Uldrich had interrupted the sch'taching when he tipped over the tub. Who knew what effect that would have? They were as undisciplined as Uldrich, and in the wrong hands, they could be very dangerous. The wand had not been seeking Uldrich when it fatefully plopped onto the open grimoire. It had been captured, or bound, by the grimoire, as the book sought to repair itself by reaching for the particles of parchment floating away in the smoke. It called the particles back to itself, and the proto-wand, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, got caught in that spell, and was integrated into the structure of the parchment page. Once Uldrich had removed the pages from the book, the page was removed from the source of magic that the book tapped into, and it would not restore itself without a measure of time and rest. The wand would remain captive until that happened.
But Uldrich knew none of this - his mind was reeling with the possibilities. His own wand! By Odin's Beard, this would change things. No more lessons. No more chores (a flick of his wand would take care of that), no more surly children trying to get the better of him. If they gave him trouble, he would take care of them with another flick. Ha ha! The fun he would have. He gathered up the pages, ignoring the magical tingle in his hands when he touched them. He had to find somewhere private and figure out how to use this thing before his father returned, and before Borstad discovered the damage he had done, or called him back for lessons.
After several days of studying the pages, and by consulting the other books that Borstad had loaned him, Uldrich came to the conclusion that the pages were indeed instructions for the casting of several spells. One was levitation, another was directionality (at least, something to do with finding or giving geographical direction, it was hard to tell, since a portion was missing), and the third, also missing the last few runes, seemed to be about projecting or throwing, or maybe teleportation. This last one had potential.
Eventually, through trial and error, Uldrich was able to make objects levitate and spin in one direction, and then the other, by combining the first two spells. The direction spell confused him, he did not see its point or usefulness. Levitating and spinning objects was fun for a while, but he wanted something he could use to show off his new found power. He went over the scripts and runes again and again. He had to have something to show his father when he returned, which could be any day, any moment, really. And Borstad would forgive him his trespass if only he could show some real progress in his studies. What better way to impress them both than to be able to cast a spell? Then the fun would start.
He wandered into the village square and felt the excitement of the folks there. The Elder was returning from the hunt! He could hear the horses, many more than usual, not far off. Then, from the other end of the village, Borstad bellowed "Uldrich!"
'Ing's incessant invocations !' Uldrich swore. He was caught. Nothing to show his father, everything to confess to the mage.
'Uldrich where are my pages? And where is the youngenvand?' Borstad strode into the square and caught Uldrich by the collar as the clansleddir's hunting party hurtled into the village. The hunt had been exceptional, there would be meat for the winter! But not just the kills, there were wild horses too. These increased the wealth of the village significantly, for they could be traded for all manner of supplies.
Borstad shook Uldrich by the collar. 'The pages and the yougenvand, now,' he hissed at the boy, with an intensity that was frightening.
Uldrich slowly pulled the wand and the crumpled parchments from his pocket, but before he had them fully out, the hunters swept into the square. The villagers cheered at the bounty being paraded before them. Borstad looked up at the spectacle and Uldrich looked down at the parchment, fluttering in the breeze created by the passing stampede of men and horses. It was the page with the mage in the background. The drawing seemed to be looking at him. The head turned. Or was that a trick of light or the breeze? The arm flexed slightly, and the wand glowed ever so briefly. Thoughts raced through Uldrich's head. The mage on the parchment winked.
It was now or never. Uldrich took the proto -wand in his right hand and held the parchment in his left. He raised his arm like the mage in the drawing. The magical tools seemed to sense his intent and started to glow. Uldrich started reading the spells from the page, quietly, and then more quickly, then louder. Borstad finally noticed. 'By the serpent's scales, what...what are you...' he muttered. He lost his grip on Uldrich's collar and took a step backward. 'No... you can't invoke them together without...'
One of the parchment pages fluttered free, right into Borstad's face. Startled, The old mage took a step back, his foot hitting a stone, and he ended up on the ground, winded.
Uldrich drew a deep breath, and shouted the damaged incantations as he drew back his arm, and with a mighty flick, loosed whatever demented Magick he happened to have conjured. The bolt started in the grimoire pages, which turned to ash, and travelled up U's arm, across his shoulders, down his right arm, out through the proto-wand, which exploded in a shower of angry flankers, straight across the square at his father as if on purpose. Only the Elder's hunter's instinct saved him, as he reflexively took a knee and at the same time raised his greaved hand, palm outward. The bolt struck the metal of greave, paused an instant in the clansleddir's hand, and shot out the five fingers into five lesser bolts. The first bolt shot out of the pinky and disappeared into the sky.
Borstad took the bolt from the index finger in the head, which made his hair and beard glow for several weeks afterward. Folks said he was different after that, but since no one could really say what he was like before, it was difficult to say what had changed. He did, however, spend a lot more time in seclusion after that day.
The bolt from the greave's middle finger traveled along the line of pack horses, which were carrying the animals killed in the hunt. The dead animals reanimated and started galloping and cavorting around the square like a macabre May Day dance, gradually rising into the air. The villagers scattered, screaming. Every so often the dead animals changed direction, and each time the grisly dance reversed, body parts detached, flying outward and crashing into whatever was in the way. Soon only the heads remained in the crazy dance. Animal blood and guts were everywhere. This continued for quite a while, until Borstad had recovered enough to make them stop.
The fourth finger's bolt hit the line of wild horses, which levitated a few inches off the ground for a moment, floated to the ground, and continued floating into into the ground as if the earth had turned to mud. The two that were standing on earth worked themselves free, slipped their reins, and bolted to freedom, knocking over several villagers in the process. The horses that were standing on bedrock sank further as they struggled, until they disappeared completely. Their bones were found the following spring in a little valley, about half a day's ride to the south-west. It was assumed it was those horses because of the runes embossed on bones of their foreheads. After that, the valley was considered to be haunted.
The bolt from the thumb went straight down, between the Elder's legs and into the ground. It is said the Uldrich The Elder never fathered another child after that day, and it became a matter of discussion and argument for many years as to whether it was because the bolt of magical energy had done something to him, or because his son had caused such chaos.
Uldrich sat on the ground, dazed. The stunned silence was eventually broken by the villagers’ cursing and wailing, his father's voice carrying over everything.
'By the bones and hooves of Sleipnir, what foul...' He stopped and stood as he saw the burnt wand in his son's hand, realization dawning on him. He slapped away a pair of flying rabbit’s heads, and deliberately stepped towards Uldrich the younger.
And then the directive: 'Uldrich, go home and wait.'
'For me' was implied.
Several hours later, the Elder stood in the council hall, facing his son. His wife stood behind him. She wept silently, knowing what was surely coming, for this transgression could not be paid off or smoothed over with favours. The village council stood at distance.
'There will be no punishment' he said, and Uldrich looked up, puzzled.
'There is no punishment for this, foolish boy. The council wants your head. You have quite likely sentenced the clan to a slow death this winter, for no one will eat meat that has been charmed.' He paused. Uldrich knew better than to speak.
'Only another successful hunt will save us, and the migrations have nearly finished, which you should know will make it difficult, but I have agreed to take whoever will hunt with me and go. I will not return until Odin smiles on us and grants us his favour.' He paused again, like he was trying to figure out how to put this next bit. His gaze hardened.
'You are banished.' His mother gasped and fell to her knees. This was worse than punishment. At least punishment had an end to it. Banishment was forever, a complete severing of ties to the clan. Uldrich had lost his heritage, his identity. Members of the clan were forbidden to help him, and would shun him if they ever came across him again. Maybe he would be fortunate enough to find a clan or village that would take him in before winter. Maybe his survival skills would see him through the winter. In those skills, however, he was sorely lacking.
The Elder knew this, and knew that Uldrich would not see the spring.
'Your name is forfeit, and its rights and claims. You are no longer Uldrich the younger of clan Uldrich. You are now...' he paused as if he was just now deciding this, but the naming of a banished clansman was a custom they did not ignore. 'You are now T'un..., T'un the Unfortunate, because it is unfortunate that you did not pay more attention to the lessons being taught you, instead of taking advantage of my being clansleddir and bullying your peers. You will have until sunup to be out of the village. Go by the east valley. I will hunt to the west.' He turned to leave, but before he reached the door, the tears were streaming down his face.
•••••
copyright 2019 W. Lyndon Brown all rights reserved
Last edited Jan 9, 2019, 2:36pm EST