Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands

It was just beginning to drizzle as they made their way onto the long wooden bridge crossing the moat. About halfway across, they passed through a ward so potent it nearly brought Nick to his knees.

“Ah,” Michael Delving inhaled deeply. “That always clears the sinuses.”

During the crossing the warlocks shared their tales of the morning’s events. Rain pouring in earnest, the conversation turned to the troll community, and Nick’s focus shifted from the stupid slippery steps to voices in the rain.

“Did they rebel against the king?” Arthur asked Bailey.

“We haven’t seen any evidence to suggest that,” Bailey replied. He readjusted his hold on Arthur. “It’s more likely our first guess is correct, that the troll king has been taken.”

Everyone was quiet following this declaration. The only sound was the steady plinking of rain on the murky brown water below. It seemed incredible, even after all his encounters with mythics, to realize there were trolls somewhere out in these very mountains. Unable to bear it any longer, Nick asked The Question: “Who could take the troll king?” which was nearly as provocative but less pertinent than ’Who would take the troll king?’

The party stopped moving. Everyone turned to look at Nick, even Arthur, who was weak.

“Oh, I see,” Nick said. “It must be You-Know-Who. Okay, ’nuff said. Sorry I asked.”

While the others resumed the trek, Duchaine paused to linger in the back with Nick. Together they gazed through the hazy rain at the Department.

The beefy warlock leant down; old wooden boards beneath his feet creaked in complaint. “It’s probably not the Mythmage.”

Almost too stunned to speak, Nick looked up at Duchaine’s unreadable face.

“You remember when Dean Delacort mentioned the Mirrorman during his commencement speech?” He waited as Nick nodded. “Well, up until a few months ago we had the Mirrorman in custody, here, at the Department. It took years to track him down and capture him. When we finally cornered the bastard in Philicity, he jumped into a mirror. At that time there was a lot of pressure on us. He’d been welcoming himself into various wizard homes through their mirrors; the wizarding community was terrified. We were desperate to nab him.”

“He can actually travel through mirrors?” Nick asked through raindrops slapping his face.

Duchaine nodded. “Ages ago the Druids destroyed all the old Traveling Mirrors. When this sorcerer started jumping all over the country with abandon back in 2017, we thought he might be trying to gather followers, or worse, knowledge. In those days we had our hands full building the fences and setting up the wards to keep the mythics limited to this Preserve, while also trying to locate the Mythmage, so the DME could only afford to send out a small hunting party to capture the Mirrorman. We were at the end of our ropes.”

“What are you getting at?” Nick asked.

Duchaine checked his pocket watch, using his red hunters cap to keep the rain off it. “I jumped in after him.”

“Into the mirror?” Nick said, aghast. “Had you ever done that before?”

Duchaine belted out a good hearty laugh. “Course not. All knowledge of mirror-traveling had been destroyed—or so we thought. I was sure I’d just smash into it.”

“But you didn’t!” Nick could hardly contain himself. Learning about new kinds of magic was always a blast.

“But I didn’t,” Duchaine said. “I’ll tell you about my trip another time. The point I was trying to make is that this Mirrorman, he doesn’t play by the rules. He knows magic we don’t know. And even though we threw every skill and enchantment and trick at our disposal at him when he was in our custody, he never revealed a thing. We still have no idea who taught him how to craft traveling mirrors, or what his end game is. So when he escaped, a wild card entered the game. He’s probably the one who took the troll king.”

Nick said, “I appreciate you taking the time to tell me all this. But I don’t understand why you thought you needed to share it with me out here in a downpour on the world’s longest wooden bridge.”

Through his drenched beard Duchaine grinned. His expression, though, quickly grew dour. “This Preserve we monitor is six-point-one million acres. That’s the size of the state of Vermont. It has ten-thousand lakes, and thirty-thousand miles of rivers; forests and mountains and bogs and denizens that would like nothing more than to eat your face—or wear it. There are things in these mountains that can kill you without you ever even seeing them.” He leaned down to whisper into Nick’s ears. “I don’t mean to scare you, but you deserve to know what we’re up against. I told you about the Mirrorman, because we believe he is here on the Preserve, and because some of the warlocks believe you made contact with him. They may try to use you to lure him out.”

“I thought they assumed it was the Mythmage who took me,” Nick said. “Because that was the only word Anaximander could find during his spirit walk with me.”

Duchaine said, “Yes, but Master Bailey is convinced that was intentional; that the Mirrorman put an enchantment on you to keep you from recalling your encounter in the Dreaming. That he planted the name ‘Mythmage’ in your mind to confuse us.”

Seeing Nick’s confused expression, Duchaine slapped him on the back. “Hey, no worries. We’ll figure out what happened to you. I know a few dream recovery tricks that might help.”

With a churning stomach Nick watched as the warlock marched on. He gripped the railing and inhaled before following, one foot in front of the other, one slippery step at a time.

Before he got very far, and while still too distant to be observed by the warlocks, he spotted movement in the corner of his eye. Up ahead on the western ridge, a shadow. Nick froze as he observed a section of the shadow detach itself from the rest, and begin to slither towards him. A sickening dread filled his mind. He was about to fly down the bridge when the roving shadow abruptly stopped, almost as if it had run into some unyielding barrier.

The ward, of course, Nick mentally slapped his forehead. He hoped these wards were more powerful than those surrounding poor unfortunate Molly’s cabin. As Nick watched, the shadow creature retreated beyond his line of sight. Nick vowed to consult his Fantastic Beasts when he got back. Maybe what he’d seen was some sort of mythic. That or, he was losing his mind.

Passwords, some sort of mystical thought probing, and old school keys were all required components to entering the sprawling Department of Magical Enforcement. While the warlocks were gaining admittance, Nick stood on the fringes of the group, staring up alternately at the massive structure. The large dark stones of its exterior were covered in a slimy green film.

“Duchaine?” he whispered beside the big man.

“Yes?”

“Um, they’re not expecting me to make a wand today, are they?”

The big warlock stroked his beard. “I hope not. That would make a really bad first impression, don’t you think?” He grinned.

Nick nodded, nominally mollified.

Once inside, a cacophony assaulted his ears. There was pounding and hammering, scraping and screeching; there was the distinctive clanking of swordplay, the characteristic womp-womp of giant bellows as in a forge or possibly an alchemy lab. And above everything there was a faint cry for mercy, barely audible. Making it out was like trying to recall the memory of a dream on waking.

Nick slopped along behind the warlocks, his sneakers making squishing sounds that echoed in the corridor. His socks were hopelessly soaked. The floors, tiled in a sleek turquoise stone, tried to slip him up with every step he took. A good twelve feet over their heads, the ceiling was artistically painted to imitate an Indian sky. It all seemed designed to conjure a calm relaxed atmosphere.

Though he wouldn’t admit it to the grizzled grownups, Nick felt calm and relaxed.

At the end of the corridor, they passed through a door leading into a vast circular atrium housing various offices, favorite wizarding food joints (exotic cuisine was something few practitioners could pass up), and supply shops, all separated by a dining arena currently populated by a few dozen Department drones and Mage officers. The pattering of their feet explained one of the distant echoing sounds Nick had heard on entering the building.

Before he could even read the signs over the offices and shops, Nick was forced to redirect his eyes when a woman within a few crow’s feet of his mother’s age bumped into him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” the witch said. “I didn’t see you there. And who is this handsome devil, Bailey? Have you been hiding him from us in that dreary attic man-cave of yours?”

Master Bailey relinquished Arthur to a pair of witch doctors he’d waved over. As they wheeled Arthur away in a wheelchair, the old warlock positioned himself between Nick and the friendly witch.

“No, no,” he said to her. “This is his first time here at the Department. This is Luc’s son, Nick. It’s take-your-son-to-work day, remember?”

The witch looked down and then away and finally back up at Bailey. “I wasn’t aware.”

“It’s just for us warlocks, I’m afraid,” Bailey lied smoothly. “If you’ll excuse us, we have much work to do. This troll uprising is going to keep us all up for days. And young Nick here is impatient to see what his father does for a living. Good day, Lena.”

There are times in every schoolboy’s career when some overzealous teacher grabs him by the arm and drags him unceremoniously away while other teachers look on with indifference. Not for the first time Nick felt his cheeks redden as he was dragged aside. Old Bailey had seemed appropriately old and knowledgeable—as every wise wizard mentor type should—but otherwise decrepit. A token Gandalf, if nothing else.

But as he dragged Nick away, the teen recognized strength in the old man he was foolish to have doubted.

He leaned in close to Nick so no one would overhear. “I must be getting senile,” the old Master said, not unkindly. “I meant to warn you before we entered, but I forgot. You’re not to reveal your identity.”

“Then why did you introduce me as Nick?”

“There is a marked resemblance between you and Nick, Luc’s son,” Bailey explained. “Lena has never met the boy, and likely never will. I figured that if by some chance she was to meet him, the resemblance would be sufficient to throw off suspicion.”

Oh great, here it comes. “Suspicion of what?” Nick asked.

After glancing over at Duchaine, who’d scrounged up a burger and was busy chowing down, Bailey turned back to Nick. “That we’ve recruited you. Only a select few individuals outside the warlock division know about the W.A.N.D. Project. And none of those few are aware of just how bad things are going with the Mythic War, let alone that we’re desperate enough to recruit a mere boy. It is vital that word not get out.”

Nick shrugged. As insulting as his last statement was, Nick didn’t mind being a super-duper secret agent. Nick Hammond: ace in the hole, diamond in the rough.

Duchaine finished his burger during their climb to the attic.

“I got to say,” Nick gasped during a spell on the fifth floor landing. “For the Department of Magical Enforcement, this stairway is awfully un-magical. I mean, shouldn’t there be like a mystical portal we step into on the ground floor and POOF we exit right outside the warlock door? Or maybe some floo powder, like in—” noticing Duchaine’s little shake of the head, Nick reconsidered his complaints. “Never mind. I guess if we didn’t use the stairs we’d be all fat and lazy, right?”

Bailey nodded. A few minutes and about twenty steps later he explained how elevators and such were impossible here. “This entire facility’s constructed on a major ley line. Over the years a few brilliant wizards have tried to overcome the technological dampening effects of the ley line, but none ever succeeded.”

“One dabbler who visited us did manage to rig up the Edison dynamo,” Duchaine boasted. “You’ve got a memory like a Haliburton, Bailey, what was that dabbler’s name?”

Bailey paused to catch his breath. He grinned. “It was Tommy Edison, as you well know.”

Edison knew about magic? Nick mused. When he thought about it, he realized this fact didn’t really surprise him; it actually explained quite a bit. Edison was called the Wizard of Menlo Park, after all. Still, he was starting to miss buffer school. At least there he was the smart one; all these terms and mythics and magical lore made him feel like a fecking outsider.

Finally, on the seventh floor, they reached a wide wooden door manacled in iron. A certain slant of light drizzled in through a window, along with a slight morning breeze. At the door Bailey used the iron knocker to announce their arrival. As they waited, Nick peered up at the face from which the knocker ring swung. It was a mold of an old bearded wizard, bald, with a strangely familiar brow and eyes. Nick turned slowly from the knocker and looked over at Duchaine, then back at the knocker face.

He was pointing at the small bust while looking at his Bestiary teacher when the grinding sound of wood on metal arrived from the other side.

On creaking hinges the enormous door swung open. An older woman’s lined face appeared above a dark leather shop apron. She took in the arrivals swiftly. Keen eyes lapped over the three warlocks and Nick, who tried not to squirm under the scrutinizing blue peepers. She opened the door wider.

“How’d the hunt go?” she asked. “Get what you were after?”

Bailey shuffled inside past the door. “Young Arthur Penrose stepped on a scarab nest. I had some Dragonsbane on me, so it didn’t get too out of hand.” With great care the master of warlocks dug a small vial brimming with a purplish solution out of his inner pocket. Displaying a remarkable degree of wariness he placed the vial in a cup sitting on a dark-stained sideboard. “That ouroboros venom was not easy to come by. Be careful—”

“With the dosage, yes, I know,” the witch said. As she inspected the contents of the vial, the woman asked “Run into any trouble?”

“Well,” Duchaine said as he entered, “there was that whole colorful business with the shaga trying to maul young Nick here.” Mirroring Bailey’s actions, the warlock undid his belt of pouches and slung it over a large peg on the wall to the left, then shrugged out of his leather vest. He waved Nick inside. When Nick failed to move, Duchaine said, “Well don’t let’s start being shy now. This is where the fun begins.” He turned to the witch. “Fortunately Superman here managed to intervene; flew right into the beast, he did, stang held at the ready.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Michael Delving boasted, flashing a huge grin.

“How many stangs have you ruined now, Mike?”

Michael pretended to count off on his fingers. “Five, I think.”

As soon as he stepped into the long aromatic room, Nick felt giddy. While grinning like a loon, he said, “What kind of ward is that?”

“A glee-ward,” Duchaine explained as he exchanged a dry shirt for his soaked one and then placed an apron smeared with gunk, and torched in sections, over his torso. “It dampens malevolent intentions. If a mythic or sorcerer ever manage to enter, they’ll suddenly become less attached to their evil designs.” He made a funny spider-crawling gesture with his fingers.

Nick slowly adapted to the giddiness. It didn’t exactly dissipate, but considering that his intentions were not malevolent but benevolent (or at least ambivalent) it did not sap his will either. Just being in the company of these knowledgeable wizards, these battle-mages, filled Nick with a sense of arrival. The quote ‘I have arrived’ came to mind.

Here perhaps he’d find some answers—whether or not anyone would be forthcoming with them.

Bailey clapped. Rubbed his hands together. “Okay, Nick. Before we initiate you and fill you in on exactly what we’ve been doing here for the past fifteen years, I want to show you something. Follow me.”

Gladly, Nick followed the old man.

The floor had been laid using wide old pine planks, doubtlessly harvested from right here on the Preserve to enhance their strength. Still, they were ancient. Dehydrated and aged to a splintery vintage, they jounced and squeaked against antique nails. Every step Nick took incited an opus. Annoyingly, the warlocks didn’t make a sound. Even when he started following precisely in their footsteps, Nick’s path continued as raucously, while theirs remained silent.

They ducked through a narrow doorway and stepped down into a circular room situated to the left about forty feet in. Pillars traced the walls, branching off as they reached the ceiling, like manufactured trees. Wooden vines and fleur-de-lis bloomed everywhere in carven glory.

To the right of the doorway stood a four-foot tall pillar topped with a triangular glass construct. Nick’s breath caught in his throat.

A single item sat on a plush little cushion encased within the glass.

The item was, unmistakably, a wand.