C. Brittain - A Bad Spell in Yurt

After a moment I caught my breath and looked at the table next to me. As well as a constant cascade of ice-blue stars, it contained piles of leaves and roots, some in earthenware bowls, some loose on the table. There were also mortars and pestles, fire-blackened pots, and bits of stone rubbed into dust. In spite of his boast about being a wizard of light and air, I thought, the old wizard was not too proud to be a wizard of earth as well.

Modern wizardry uses very few herbs and roots. We keep our magic technical, straightforward, capable of being attached to such simple substances as steel and glass and of being reduced to written spells. But all wizards know, even those, like me, who tended to skip the lectures on the history of wizardry, that there is a natural affinity to magic in some growing things. In the days when books were few and apprenticeships long, young wizards learned how to recognize and gather plants with magical properties, even discover new ones. It occurred to me that, since I hadn’t exactly been a huge success as a wizard taught from books, maybe I should give apprenticeship a try.

That is, of course, if the old wizard would be willing to teach me. So far everything I had said seemed to infuriate him. I looked across the room to where he sat rocking by his hearth. The room had darkened, but the fire’s glow reddened his face. The rain’s beat fell steadily on the oak leaves above the roof.

“Master,” I began, and he whirled toward me abruptly, as though, deep in thought, he had almost forgotten my presence. “Master, I was glad to see that you had brought at least some of your apparatus from the castle to be able to continue your research into magic properties.”

“What do you mean, at least some ? I brought everything I had and swept out my study when I was done. If you’re trying to find out by hints and insinuations what might be in my study, you must not have been listening to what I said. There is nothing left in my study, but for reasons of my own I want it locked while the kingdom remains! Can I make it any clearer than that?”

He stirred the fire vigorously, and the smoke found me again. The old wizard coughed a few times as well. I realized I had almost been hoping he had left something in his study that had escaped, but now I just felt disappointed. It was likely only an old man’s pride that had made him not want any other wizard to ever use the room where he had studied and done his research for so many years. If he had put a magic lock on the door, well, even City-trained wizards like me didn’t always get the spells just right.

We sat and listened to the rain for several more minutes. Time seemed to stretch out endlessly in the dark room. I wasn’t even hungry, even though it must have been long past dinner time. A small calico cat appeared suddenly from behind a chair, startling me for a second into thinking it was a large rat, rubbed against me, then crossed the room to hop up on the old wizard’s lap. He stroked it absently, staring into the fire.

I tried again. “Master, in spite of my degree from the wizards’ school, which seemed to impress them up at the castle, I’m really not a very good wizard.”

“You didn’t need to tell me that. ”

“But I want to learn! If I came here regularly, could you teach me about the magic of air and herbs?”

He glared at me so fixedly that I was sure he would refuse. The cat in his lap, unconcerned, gave a wide pink yawn and settled itself more comfortably. But then the old wizard’s shoulders seemed to relax a little. He rocked in silence for a moment while I held my breath, then answered at last. “Maybe. Just maybe. After the last time, I’d determined I’d never teach anyone again.”

This must be the time that Dominic and the Lady Maria had tried to learn magic, I thought, but did not dare speak.

“But I don’t think you’re as stupid as you seem at first.” This was apparently a compliment. “I’ll have to consider it. I haven’t had an apprentice for many years, maybe for a century.”

If he was trying to pretend an old man’s forgetfulness, he wasn’t fooling me; I was sure he knew exactly who his last apprentice had been and when he had taught him.

“No one wanted to be an apprentice anymore after that wizards’ school started.” This thought roused him into a new glare. “But the old magic cannot be forgotten. You young whipper-snappers are going to need it when your ‘modern’ magic gets into trouble. I’ll think about it for a while.”

I was delighted but dared not show it. This was virtually a promise. During his “while,” as he thought about it, I could teach myself a lot of the magic I was supposed to know already if I spent every evening with my books. Then if I started coming down here regularly, maybe I could actually become a competent wizard. I imagined myself going back to the City for a visit and showing off all my new skills.

He interrupted my imaginings with almost a shout. “But would you then go back and tell everything I taught you to that chaplain friend of yours?”

This had never occurred to me as a possibility. “No, of course not! Why should I do that? He doesn’t even really approve of magic.”

“But you said he was your friend,” said the wizard with a grunt.

“Just because he’s the most intelligent person my age in the castle. It’s nice to have someone to talk to over wine in the evening.”

“And you like your wine, don’t you?” If I wasn’t careful, he was going to rescind his offer to think for a while about teaching me the old herbal magic.

“He seems to think even ordinary magic is black magic. I might have a glass of wine with him, but I certainly wouldn’t tell him anything I’d learned.”

This seemed to irritate the old wizard, but I realized it was not something I had said but something I reminded him of. “His predecessor was just the same. Accusing honest wizards of pacts with the devil. As though I didn’t know better than to deal rashly in black magic!”

In spite of what I had told the chaplain, wizards do in fact talk among themselves of “black magic.” There is no evil in magic itself, only in the intention of those who practice it, but in the few cases (very few, I hope) where a wizard has summoned a demon to add supernatural ability to his evil intentions, we refer to him as practicing black magic.

It is of course always difficult to draw the line. No one at the wizards’ school would call it black magic to summon a demon (and a very small one at that) to demonstrate to the class what to do if you meet one, but I hardly found it appropriate to discuss this with the old wizard any more than I had with the chaplain.

“Interfering old busy-body! Frustrated old maid!” The old wizard sank back in his chair with a snort. He was apparently referring to the old chaplain.

I tried to think of something to say to change the subject and decided silence was best. Besides, my head was starting to ache fiercely. There are magic spells to minimize pain, and I decided to try one, very delicately and surreptitiously, hoping that he wouldn’t notice.

But I couldn’t help wonder why the old chaplain had thought the wizard had been practicing black magic, and in what he had tried to interfere.

The old wizard went back to rocking, the cat asleep in his lap. What seemed like several hours passed. The fire kept on burning steadily, though he added no more wood. If he noticed that the smoke from his hearth had given his guest a headache, and that the guest had had the poor taste to practice magic in his face, he didn’t deign to mention it.

I roused from a reverie to notice the rain had stopped. My head felt fine. I stood up from next to the table where I had been sitting, stiff in all my joints. Horizontal rays from the sun came through the narrow window, lighting up the piles of herbs and making the swirls of light and illusion seem rather insignificant.