The Wizard

Not sure what gave me the idea to write this. Maybe just the thought that whatever mysterious things a magician might do may have a very mundane motivation. I won't over-analyse. I hope you enjoy.

The wizard lived deep within the forest. Turn north off the road to Celcary, cross beyond the rapid stream they call Vauren and venture onto the Gloomy Moors. There beyond the edge of the moors with their drooping willows and belching bogs and foggy pits he makes his abode in a gnarled tower that sticks out of a rocky outcrop like a jagged tooth out of a broken jaw. For most of the villagers of Glendwick and Battrow he is no more than an old wives' tale or something to scare children with at bedtime. Some elders would of course insist that they have seen him on occasion skulking around the edge of the forest. Bredo, the hunter, even told a tall tale that once, on an eve of full moon, he had ventured all the way to the moors pursuing a deer when he had seen a flickering blue light somewhere within the mist that hung over the bogs. He swore that it beckoned to him but then it went out and he had heard a wail so terrible that he had run all the way back to Battrow as if the devil had been on his heels. He had never caught that deer either. After that he would refuse to hunt anywhere beyond the Vauren. In the presence of the wizard, he would intone, animals had learned a bit of magic of their own. It was mainly about eluding him.
But he had been right about one thing: the light was always on in that tower at the edge of the bogs. Here the wizard made his lair behind lichen-covered stone, tattered curtains past which the wind occasionally howled through the windows. He lived among his ancient tomes and musty volumes, bleached parchment scrolls and withered tablets. His tower housed countless oddities, trinkets, and devices from worthless cantrips to powerful artefacts. A crystal ball twinkled mysteriously in the centre of the room and many a night a large black cauldron would quietly gurgle over the fire. Vats connected by winding tubes were arranged on tables, shelves with flasks and phials lined the walls, each labelled in meticulous script. "Philter of Transmutation" read one label, or "Potion of Reduction". In another room on a different level of the tower rows of jars contained "Tear of Fish", or "Hair of a Virgin". One jar holding a sliver shining and glowing like a slice of the moon was labelled "Horn of Unicorn" while another seemed to contain a single flame as of a candle and bore the label "Seed of Fire". Dribbling candles and greasy oil lamps littered the rooms and flickered unsteadily as the wizard brushed past them as if they were bowing in reverence. And in the centre highest room stood the wizard's reading desk, cluttered with folios and opposite it by the wall stood a great blackboard on which he scribbled and drew arcane diagrams. Sometimes as he muttered his incantations the diagrams would come to life and glow with an eerie light or slide across the board and from new symbols. The wizard would study these intently but eventually rub them out and begin anew.
Here then it was where the wizard toiled day and night. Once a strong and handsome young man he had collapsed upon himself. His hair had turned grey and receded far up his scalp. What was left grew unkempt while his matted beard reached down over his chest. His skin had grown pallid and had sagged and drooping, dark shadows had formed under his eyes. His limbs were gnarled like the branches of an old tree and he walked hunched over, leaning on a cane or staff at all times. Yet the wizard knew no rest and each new enchantment he wove drew more life out of him. In his youth he had been a proud master of the arts casting even great spells with ease. Now, as the power coursed through him he would lean heavily on his desk and give a sigh of agony. And yet he pressed on. Only his eyes were still clear but where they had had a wistful twinkle they were now hard as steel and the spirited glow had long since turned into a smouldering gleam.
He noticed neither the turning of seasons nor the coming and going of each day. His work required his constant attention. The vats needed regular monitoring. Certain ingredients required tending or gathering. Sometimes they also needed hunting down. Those were the only long trips the wizard made outside the tower. The last unicorn had not been easy to trap. They said that every time you caught a unicorn it cost you a bit of your soul. And he had already begun feeling stretched thin. And then there were, of course, the enchantments that had to be worked at precisely the right time and in the right succession. The grimoirs in his collection left no doubt about that. The wizard knew the rules of his art only too well. He had failed too many times. He was growing too old, his powers too feeble to start the cycle yet again from the beginning. The seven years would be up soon and the moon was almost full. So he laboured incessantly granting himself no respite.
When the night of the full moon was upon him he arranged the circles and with trembling fingers he drew the ancient diagrams. He infused each with syllables that cracked his lips as he spoke them. He could feel his hair grow white this time as he read aloud the incantations. When darkness had fallen many of his jars and vats were empty.
When the moon hung high and the sky was black as ink, when somewhere in faraway Celcary a clock struck the wizard spoke the final verses. With his bare finger he traced lines that bent and pushed the world itself back and with a creak that could be felt rather than heard it gave way. Forces tearing at him from all sides, mind and body taut with exertion the wizard focussed the centre of all the lines and diagrams. One after the other he pushed the syllables out and with the last of them still ringing in the air she was there, right in the centre of it all. Immaterial though she was there could be no doubt that it was her. The moment had come again at last. Only one more thing remained.
He forced the words out from between his clenched lips. So simple a question. She turned her head to face him. Her eyes met his. Time seemed to stand still and all faded away, the crackling of power, the creaking of the Boundary, his own groans of exertion. Suddenly he could repeat the question in a calm voice. Never breaking the eye contact or his own furious concentration he repeated it slowly, meaningfully. She regarded him with great seriousness. Her gaze seemed to penetrate his very being. She knew the answer. This time he was certain of it. So many times he had stared into her empty eyes but this time it was different. She knew. But she did not speak. Again he repeated the question, imploringly this time. Somewhere far away he could feel the forces were beginning to crush his fragile form. He frantically sought for the spark of approval in her eyes. She had only to speak it aloud and all his efforts and endeavours would have been worthwhile. However, her expression grew sad. Once more he uttered the question. His voice was hoarse and his mouth dry. He could not have changed so much. It was still him. It was still her. She knew the answer! But the passage was closing. Then a single glittering tear ran from the corner of her eye. Gently shaking her head she spoke. And suddenly everything made sense, finally and ultimately made sense. And when she had finished speaking she bade him farewell. An anguished scream wrenched itself from his throat that moment. Sights and sounds came crashing down on him again. He stumbled and collapsed to his knees. The apparition was gone. With his last strength he clawed at the place where she had lain but it was empty as it had been before. The cry began deep in his chest as a frustrated howl but when it burst from his lips it was nothing more than the agonised wail of a defeated old man. Thus the wizard lay on the stone floor in the former focal point of his power and wept.
Eventually, the candles wept out, soon after followed the oil lamps and darkness fell on the high chamber. And when the sky turned grey and even the fire in the hearth had burnt down the tower and the moors around were quiet at last.