Babysitting

Lilly felt magic gathering in the house, a lot of magic. In a house full of witches of varying

abilities, magic was the norm. The problem, and it was a serious problem, was that the only other person

in the house besides Lilly was her kid brother Jason. Jealous of their older brother Trip, Jason wanted

Trip’s skill and reputation without having to put forth a fraction of the work.

She launched herself out of the easy chair and ran for the basement workshop. Racing quickly

down the stairs she ran headlong into an invisible wall blocking the entrance into the basement and fell

back against the stairs. Wincing, she got to her feet.

“I knew you’d try and stop me,” Jason snickered smugly from his side of the protective barrier,

“but you’re too late.”

“What are you doing?”

“Baking cookies,” he retorted sarcastically as he poured the full contents of a vial into the brass

basin. Witches didn’t use huge cauldrons. For one, they’re incredibly heavy. They’re also usually black

in the Halloween movies, which suggest cast iron. Iron and magic don’t mix, and brass is a lot sturdier

than the more expensive silver basin Jason melted two months ago.

“Mom and Dad are going to kill you when they get home if you survive this. You aren’t ready

for that kind of power. I can feel it building all the way upstairs. That is way beyond a second year level

spell and you know it.” She couldn’t make out what spell he was doing by what ingredients she could see

on the table, nor could she see the book he was using.

“Trip was doing fourth year spells by my age and none of you held him back,” he growled. “I’m

every bit as powerful as he is!”

“I don’t care if you are or aren’t. He earned the right to move on to those books by mastering the

spells that came before it. You can’t control this much magic; you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“You’re just like them! I’ll show you.”

She slapped a hand on the barrier, “take down this ward, Jason, or so help me.”

“No. When I master this portal spell, you’re going to be sorry you doubted me.”

“Are you insane?” she hissed incredulously. “People die doing that spell, you arrogant little

twerp. One slight miscalculation and you could end up embedded in a tree or a building. None of the

books in the house even have a portal spell, where did you get it?”

“We never use black magic,” he said with a poorly managed imitation of their Dad’s deep voice.

“We never use black books. They’re illegal. Well guess what I found in his study when he forgot to

ward the door? Just guess? I found a black book. You wouldn’t believe the spells in this thing.” Lilly

felt sick to her stomach. “I don’t believe you. Dad would never own a black book.”

“Shows what you know,” he said smugly as he held up the book. It wasn’t black in color. It was

the type of magic it contained. Black magic was blood magic, and every spell inside that book had a

blood price. Black books were illegal and for good reason.

“What did you kill?”

“Don’t get all squeamish,” he rolled his eyes. “You had KFC for dinner just last night. It’s just

chicken blood. I mean we eat chicken, and the blood goes to waste. Why shouldn’t we use it?”

“Where did you find a live chicken in the city?”

“I didn’t,” he made a face at the idea of actually having to kill it himself. “I got it already bottled

at the demon butcher shop. They use a spell to keep the blood from aging or congealing for two days.

This stuff was going to go bad in a few hours, so they gave it to me cheap,” he said, holding up a milk jug

full of blood. He took off the lid and started pouring it into the basin without even measuring.

She swallowed hard, wondering how she would get through to him. “Jason, listen. You didn’t

tell the shop owner what you were using it for or he wouldn’t have sold it to you.”

“Which is why I didn’t tell him,” he said in a well-duh kind of tone.

“That blood is meant for drinking, you can’t use it like that for magic. You have no idea how

many chickens bled into that mixture.”

He rolled his eyes at me. “I looked up blood volume in a chicken on the internet.”

She shook her head, “It isn’t about volume, it’s about death. The magic is in the death or life in

the blood, not the blood itself. You have no idea how many chickens died in the making of what you

have there; and not knowing that, you cannot control the magic.”

“You’re just trying to scare me so I won’t do it.” His chin came up mulishly.

“I’m not, I swear I’m not. I’ve never lied to you and you know it. Read the book,” she begged.

“Check the warnings. They all have warnings. It tells you how precise you have to be, doesn’t it? It has

to. That spell can go wrong in so many different ways it’s insane. Please stop. Please Jason, I am really

scared here.”

For half a second he looked at the book in hesitation, but his pride won out and his freckled face

took on a superior look. “You’re not fooling me.”

“Did you at least put the translation spell in?” she demanded, stalling for time.

He laughed. “I’m just going to Greg’s house.”

“Trip opened portals to the wrong place three times before he managed it,” she lied. He wasn’t

listening to the truth. If he did live through this but ended up in China or something, Lilly wanted him to

be able to find the local coven and get them to send him home. Then their parents could deal with him

instead of her. This was the absolute last time she babysat while they went out of town.

“Fine,” he grumbled, and added a few lines to his scribbled version of the spell. It gave her a

chance to study the runes he’d drawn on the floor to block her from entering the basement. They were

rudimentary and crudely drawn with chalk. She was pretty sure she could break through, but by the time

she figured that out she saw him adding the last of the ingredients. Her window of opportunity was about

gone. She didn’t make it fancy, blasting it with raw power. The ward--and quite a bit of the wall all

around it—disintegrated. One chunk of wall nearly hit him in the head.

“What’re you crazy?” Jason screamed as she stepped past his protection and he quickly held the

last ingredient over the bowl. “STOP RIGHT THERE!”

“Boy you are in a world of trouble,” she snapped as she glared at him. “You put that bowl down

or I’m calling the coven elders to have them bind your powers till Mom and Dad get back.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said in wide-eyed shock.

“The hell I wouldn’t. I’m not going to spend the next three days wondering if you’re going to do

something else that will kill us both. Hand over the book and the bowl and walk upstairs now.” She

moved to grab the book.

With a panicked look in his eyes at the thought of losing his magic, he dropped the whole bowl

into the basin before she could grab it and quickly started the spell. Magic surged up around him in a

cloud of sticky foul smelling smoke. She froze as power filled the room and shuddered through the floor.

She couldn’t stop it. He knew she couldn’t. The dam broke free and his words were the only thing

holding all this energy in check. He had to finish the spell or the backlash would kill them both.

She knew the exact moment he realized she wasn’t lying and that there was too much death in the

blood. He’d never felt the kind of power that now fought his control. His face turned a chalky white and

his words began to slow. “Keep talking,” she ordered through gritted teeth. “Finish it or we’re both

dead.” His words sped up again in a quavering weak voice as he struggled to keep hold of all that magic.

He looked ready to throw up he was so frightened, and she was right there with him.

She winced as she heard several mispronunciations. How many ways could this go wrong?

Chances were they had about forty seconds to live. Lilly’s heart pounded in her ears. She held up

shaking hands and started to speak softly so she wouldn’t throw her brother off. At the moment he quit

speaking she threw up a hasty ward to surround them both before dragging him to the floor, covering his

body with her own.

BOOM! Screaming, they clutched each other with eyes shut tight as the ceiling collapsed on top

of them and waited for the ward to fail. It took a moment for their ears to quit ringing, time to breathe in,

time to assure each other that they were still alive. The ward held. It was completely dark under all the

rubble. Holding out her hand she called light to her palm. Jason looked up at her with wide eyes and a

face white like chalk. “Hold this.” She gave him the globe of light and pulled out her phone.

“Wait! You can’t call them.”

She looked at him disbelief, “Like they aren’t going to notice? How exactly did you think we

were going to get out of here? I can only hold this ward in place so long.”

“They’re gonna kill me,” he whispered.

“Yep,” she agreed grimly as she dialed.

“Hi Honey, we can’t talk just now we’re…”

“It’s an emergency,” she cut in quickly.

“What’s wrong?” The instant concern was not misplaced.

“You remember when I said I didn’t want to babysit? You said it was no big deal, all I had to do

was keep him from bringing the house down around our ears.”

“Right,” she agreed warily.

“I failed. Can you come dig us out?” There was a clatter as the phone hit the ground.

THE ASCENDANT DEMON

There you sit on your mountain looking down at me in judgment but today things will

change. Today I shall own your soul, pet. It begins simply a compliment here and argument

there and slowly but surely you approach me. “Come down,” I whisper and the tree snickers.

When I could see you clearly though something changed. You were beautiful; Aryan and

stunning.

“Come down,” I say again and you try to fight me. You try to fight for your soul but I can

see the lust in your sapphire eyes and know that all I must do is wait. After all my every action

and word enthrall you. You cannot resist.

“Come down,” I say and offer you my hand. You don’t take it but you step lightly on to

the ground. When you do I can’t help but kiss you.

You push me back but how sweet you taste. “She demon,” you declare, “touch me not.”

“I’m afraid I already have, dear boy,” I say with a wicked pearly grin raising an eyebrow

suggestively. I read your eyes again and understand that you are considering running so I take

your hand and say, “You’re right of course, Angel sweet, my apologies. Please I shall try harder

to behave but you must stay.”

Your face softens and I lead you to the tree where we then sit, vanishing beneath the

too long grass. You touch the tree’s burnt trunk and look up to its jagged ruby leaves in dismay

before meeting my gaze, the same bloody shade. “How did the tree tell you of my presence?

You were ignorant to it until today.”

“Well,” I began, looking up to its twisted branches, “Today, when the first wind of

Autumn blew your smell of berry was torn away from you. It traveled then to my sweet tree

and played the leaves like harp strings. I was quite startled truth be told and begged it to

explain the shocking sound. It then told me where, on the silver mountain, you were hiding.”

You glance down at my wrinkly black silk dress thinking quietly to yourself, the tree

whispers to me while you do but you wouldn’t hear it. “How have I come so far off my perch as

to keep such a damned being company?” you ask at last.

I look back to you with a jovial smile and say, “You insult me, Angel, I did not force you

down so perhaps you ought to tell me why this is so?” I then look down at your ivory clothes.

There is nary a crease to find and the only thing amiss is that I can see part of your bare chest.

“Surely you don’t need me to tell you that you speak well, Demon. You spoke with

flattery and sorrow. I needed to help free your soul, a foolish goal I should think,” you say

looking up to your mountain’s glittering peaks. They only glittered so in noon day sun.

“Dear Angel, if you are uncomfortable feel free to leave. I shall just return to my lonely

conversations with the tree,” I say and turn my face away from you sadly. You gently take my

hand and I turn back.

“No, Demon, I understand but if truth be told I enjoy your company. God save me,” you

admit and I lay against you happily. You wrap an arm around me.

As we lay there the sun begins to fall and so I ask, “Angel, if you do not ascend by

nightfall what becomes of you?”

You look to the shadows and reply contemplatively, “I actually don’t know, Demon

sweet.”

“Does that frighten you?” I ask then add, “Do I frighten you?” You lay your head back

with a soft grin, your short golden hair fanning out against the trunk. I beam at you as a curly

strand of my own ebony hair falls into my eyes. You catch it and wrap it around you finger like

a black band.

“No, Demon, you do not and therein lies the trouble. I find your silver tongue a pleasant

thing even knowing it might end me,” you reply at last.

“Will you stay then?” I ask kissing your hand lightly.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” you say looking back to the shadows and pulling away from me. I

follow quickly and block your path placing a hand against what is revealed of your bare skin.

You look down to it and place your hand upon it. I begin brushing your skin with my thumb and

step closer.

“Tell me, Angel, and tell me truly, why must you leave?” I ask.

“Your God is wrong, Demon,” you say gently pushing my hand away.

“What makes your God more right than mine?” I ask you coldly.

You are taken aback by my change of tone but quickly recover and reply, “Eternal life

and happiness is the difference between your God and mine.”

“Are we not Eternal?” I ask and you frown dropping my hand. “Are you happy up there

on your lonely peaks because I am not but I could be if you’d only stay.”

You shake your head and try to push past. I keep blocking your path and place your

hand over my heart. You look down to your feet and say, “Your falsities fall on deaf ears, Love.

This cannot be.”

“Falsities? What makes your truth more right than mine?” I ask and you meet my gaze

and push me out of the way. The sun continues to sink and I follow just behind you going on, “Is

it wrong to love and right to judge?” You keep moving. “Is it wrong to trust in yourself and right

to constantly trust in someone who doesn’t even know you?” You start to hesitate but keep

moving. “Is it wrong to live happily now and right to be constantly racked with guilt?” You stop

as the sky turns various shades of pink and orange and red. I turn you around and set both my

hands on your face. “Is it wrong to know with a surety that God exists and right to follow some

unknown entity whose face you never see?” Your eyes are tortured and unsure. “So tell me,

Love, what is right and wrong truly?”

You are lost in thought and the sky begins to grow dark. You look to the sky and think to

flee but then look back to me. Our quiet plane begins to tremble and scream in unearthly ways.

We both look to the mountain as it quivers and begins to break. I take your hand and kiss your

palm. You look down to me, a full head shorter than you, and say, “Demon, it cannot end this

way.”

“The choice is yours, my beloved,” I say as I gently brush a lip against your ear. You do

not pull away and boulders begin falling into my valley. “Love me,” I whisper to you and finally

you turn to me. I wait knowing your next move before you do. When you kiss me it comes as

little surprise. I wrap my arms around your shoulders and turn your back to the mountain. As

you move into a hug with a heavy sigh I watch the mountain crumble grinning.

I brush a hand through your hair, you are distraught but the tree whispers to me, “Well

done.”

The Witch

Elise stood at the edge of the forest with her lips pursed in a thin line and a determined glint in her eyes. The villagers had all told her the forest was dangerous, but they’d also told her the only one who might be able to help her mother was the witch who lived inside it. After taking a deep breath Elise started forward onto the path into the forest. A tingle ran down her spine when she passed between the first of the trees and the hairs on her arms stood on end. She could feel the enchantment of the forest that the villagers had mentioned.

As Elise continued along the path she contemplated how best to put the witch in a good enough mood to help her. She’d heard the witch was ugly, with a beak for a nose and coarse, scraggly dark hair. The witch was always in a bad mood and if you wanted something from the terrifying hag you had to give something in return. Elise’s sky blue eyes studied the ground along the path for something to present to the witch in exchange for the potion to cure her mother. After walking for half an hour she came upon a patch of white tulips. They were beautiful and the young girl couldn’t help stopping to examine them. A smile played at her soft, pink lips and her long, blond hair spilled over her shoulder in soft curls and brushed against the tips of the flowers.

After a few seconds of contemplation Elise started picking the flowers. They seemed like the perfect gift to give to the witch in exchange for a potion. She was sure an ugly witch would appreciate the beauty of the delicate, white flowers. A small bouquet in her hands, Elise continued along the narrow forest path. Once in a while Elise would pass a tree in full bloom, but she could never tell what type of fruit would grow on it later. Birds flitted around, their songs mixing into the gentle song of a choir.

Eventually the path came to an end and Elise stared in surprise. A small, neat, stone cottage sat in a clearing. Flowers bloomed in front of it and vines climbed one corner of the cottage, but had been carefully trimmed away from the window. White curtains concealed the interior of the cottage. The scene looked completely different from the rundown, dark, wooden hovel that Elise had been expecting. It certainly didn’t look like a place befitting an ugly, old hag like the villagers had described to her. Perhaps she’d come to the wrong place?

While Elise stood staring at the cottage and trying to decide what to do, a woman with waist-length, soft, wavy hair the color of milk chocolate came from the back of the cottage. She wore a plain white dress with elbow-length sleeves and a belt of silver rope that sat elegantly on her hips. The dress reached the woman’s ankles, but as she walked it was clear that her feet were bare. She had a pretty face, with soft skin, straight nose that was somewhat small, and gentle, gray, almond-shaped eyes. When the woman spotted Elise she smiled.

“Well, hello there,” the woman said in a pleasant-sounding, rich alto. “You must be from the village. What can I do for you?”

Elise jumped when the woman spoke and she came out of her confused stupor. “I-I’m looking for the witch,” she stammered, blushing at how awkward she sounded. Surely this lovely woman couldn’t be the witch. The villagers had all said how ugly the woman was, after all.

“And you’ve found her. Now what is it you’d like me to help you with?” the woman replied with a knowing smile on her face.

Elise noticed the lack of assurance that the woman who claimed to be the witch could help and she frowned a little. “You don’t look like a witch,” she argued.

The woman laughed and moved closer to Elise. “My dear child, I can imagine what the villagers told you I looked like, but very few witches actually look like what regular people imagine them to be. It’s difficult to be afraid of someone who looks completely normal, after all, so I think they just prefer to make us out to be something horrible looking. That way they can be afraid of us without making themselves feel guilty. I assure you that I’m a fully trained witch.”

Elise bit her lip and studied the woman uncertainly before holding out the flowers and saying in a shaky voice, “My mother is very sick. The doctor said there’s nothing he could do for her and I heard that the witch in the forest can make potions for anything. I brought flowers in exchange…”

The witch studied the flowers and sighed. “You picked those here in the forest, didn’t you? Did you pay the price for them?”

Elise’s eyebrows knitted together and she frowned. “What do you mean? They were growing on the side of the path, so what price could they have had?”

“I’m sure the villagers warned you that this forest is enchanted,” the witch explained patiently. “You cannot take something from it without sacrificing something of equal value. Your hair, for instance. The tulips will bloom again next year and your hair will grow back.”

Elise’s eyes widened and her free hand darted to her waist-length hair. “What? But that’s ridiculous! Why should I have to cut off my hair just for some flowers?”

The witch shrugged. “You don’t have to, child, but if you don’t you’ll end up cursed. And I won’t help you unless you pay the forest’s price. Let me get my scissors and we’ll go back to where you got the tulips from. I’ll cut your hair for you so it’ll still look nice and we’ll leave your hair there.”

Hot, angry tears filled Elise’s eyes. She loved her long hair. Nobody in the village had hair as long as hers and she knew the boys watched her because of it. Elise was fourteen and just old enough to be paying attention to boys and what they thought of her appearance. “I don’t want to cut my hair!”

“Well, then I guess you don’t want to save your mother, either.” The woman’s voice was blunt and uncaring. “Make your decision. I’ll be back with the scissors.” She turned and entered the cottage through the wooden door that had been painted a light shade of blue-gray.

The tears spilled down Elise’s cheeks and she crossed her arms over her just-budding breasts and stamped one tiny foot on the ground. It just wasn’t fair. Surely the witch was making things up just to humiliate her. Still, by the time the woman came back out Elise had made her decision. Her mother was more important to her than her hair, after all.

The witch didn’t even ask what Elise had decided. She simply started walking down the path the way Elise had come without glancing back. Elise followed the witch at a slower pace, a pouting expression on her face. Somehow, it didn’t take as long to reach the spot where Elise had picked the tulips as it had for Elise to get from the spot to the witch’s cottage, but Elise didn’t question it. She stood, sniffling quietly as the witch cut her hair.

The long locks fell away and landed on the flowers and when the witch was done Elise’s hair brushed the bottom of her chin, but went no further. The fourteen-year-old girl covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

For a moment, the witch stood there and let the girl cry, but then the older woman put an arm around Elise’s slender shoulders and rubbed the girl’s arm in a way clearly meant to be comforting. “It’ll grow back quickly, dear. By the time the tulips bloom next year your hair will be back to the length it was before. That’s one of the nice things about magic. You have to pay a price, but the price is always fair. Now why don’t we go and see your mother so I can figure out what’s wrong with her? I won’t know what needs to be done until I’ve seen her for myself.”

Elise nodded and an hour later she and the witch were in front of the small log house that was Elise’s home. The girl opened the door and led the woman inside and toward the small bedroom at the back.

The witch studied the older woman sleeping in the bed and covered by a worn patchwork quilt without saying a word. After several minutes she put her hand on Elise’s back and guided her out of the room and back to the tiny sitting room at the front of the house. “You’re right. Your mother is very ill and there’s nothing a doctor could do for her.

I could make a potion, but as you learned with the flowers, magic requires a price of equal value. If you don’t pay the price for the potion, then your mother will be dead by the next full moon.

“What’s the price?” Elise asked nervously. If she had to die to save her mother then she knew she couldn’t pay it. Her mother would be furious to find out that she’d died to save her after all.

The witch was serious as she studied the young girl’s face. “To make the potion and save your mother you’ll have to give up your life here and join me in the forest as my apprentice. Of course you’ll still be able to come and visit your friends and you’ll have time to yourself, but that’s the price.”

Elise’s eyes widened in horror. That was almost as bad as having to die. “I have to become a witch?” she squeaked.

The witch nodded. “That’s right. It’s the only price I’m willing to ask of you to save your mother. I’m sure your mother wouldn’t be happy with any of the other options, since they’re things like you dying or sacrificing a limb. I’m not fond of those prices either, so I never ask them.”

Elise looked toward the door into the bedroom where her mother was sleeping. For several minutes she struggled with herself as she tried to decide if the price was one she could pay. Eventually the desire for her mother’s life won over Elise’s desire for freedom and she bowed her head, her sky blue eyes filled with tears. “Alright. I’ll do it,” she said in a quiet voice.

The witch smiled. “Well, then let’s go back to my cottage and get started making that potion,” she said cheerfully. “Your mother will be better in no time at all.”

The Witch

Elise stood at the edge of the forest with her lips pursed in a thin line and a determined glint in her eyes. The villagers had all told her the forest was dangerous, but they’d also told her the only one who might be able to help her mother was the witch who lived inside it. After taking a deep breath Elise started forward onto the path into the forest. A tingle ran down her spine when she passed between the first of the trees and the hairs on her arms stood on end. She could feel the enchantment of the forest that the villagers had mentioned.

As Elise continued along the path she contemplated how best to put the witch in a good enough mood to help her. She’d heard the witch was ugly, with a beak for a nose and coarse, scraggly dark hair. The witch was always in a bad mood and if you wanted something from the terrifying hag you had to give something in return. Elise’s sky blue eyes studied the ground along the path for something to present to the witch in exchange for the potion to cure her mother. After walking for half an hour she came upon a patch of white tulips. They were beautiful and the young girl couldn’t help stopping to examine them. A smile played at her soft, pink lips and her long, blond hair spilled over her shoulder in soft curls and brushed against the tips of the flowers.

After a few seconds of contemplation Elise started picking the flowers. They seemed like the perfect gift to give to the witch in exchange for a potion. She was sure an ugly witch would appreciate the beauty of the delicate, white flowers. A small bouquet in her hands, Elise continued along the narrow forest path. Once in a while Elise would pass a tree in full bloom, but she could never tell what type of fruit would grow on it later. Birds flitted around, their songs mixing into the gentle song of a choir.

Eventually the path came to an end and Elise stared in surprise. A small, neat, stone cottage sat in a clearing. Flowers bloomed in front of it and vines climbed one corner of the cottage, but had been carefully trimmed away from the window. White curtains concealed the interior of the cottage. The scene looked completely different from the rundown, dark, wooden hovel that Elise had been expecting. It certainly didn’t look like a place befitting an ugly, old hag like the villagers had described to her. Perhaps she’d come to the wrong place?

While Elise stood staring at the cottage and trying to decide what to do, a woman with waist-length, soft, wavy hair the color of milk chocolate came from the back of the cottage. She wore a plain white dress with elbow-length sleeves and a belt of silver rope that sat elegantly on her hips. The dress reached the woman’s ankles, but as she walked it was clear that her feet were bare. She had a pretty face, with soft skin, straight nose that was somewhat small, and gentle, gray, almond-shaped eyes. When the woman spotted Elise she smiled.

“Well, hello there,” the woman said in a pleasant-sounding, rich alto. “You must be from the village. What can I do for you?”

Elise jumped when the woman spoke and she came out of her confused stupor. “I-I’m looking for the witch,” she stammered, blushing at how awkward she sounded. Surely this lovely woman couldn’t be the witch. The villagers had all said how ugly the woman was, after all.

“And you’ve found her. Now what is it you’d like me to help you with?” the woman replied with a knowing smile on her face.

Elise noticed the lack of assurance that the woman who claimed to be the witch could help and she frowned a little. “You don’t look like a witch,” she argued.

The woman laughed and moved closer to Elise. “My dear child, I can imagine what the villagers told you I looked like, but very few witches actually look like what regular people imagine them to be. It’s difficult to be afraid of someone who looks completely normal, after all, so I think they just prefer to make us out to be something horrible looking. That way they can be afraid of us without making themselves feel guilty. I assure you that I’m a fully trained witch.”

Elise bit her lip and studied the woman uncertainly before holding out the flowers and saying in a shaky voice, “My mother is very sick. The doctor said there’s nothing he could do for her and I heard that the witch in the forest can make potions for anything. I brought flowers in exchange…”

The witch studied the flowers and sighed. “You picked those here in the forest, didn’t you? Did you pay the price for them?”

Elise’s eyebrows knitted together and she frowned. “What do you mean? They were growing on the side of the path, so what price could they have had?”

“I’m sure the villagers warned you that this forest is enchanted,” the witch explained patiently. “You cannot take something from it without sacrificing something of equal value. Your hair, for instance. The tulips will bloom again next year and your hair will grow back.”

Elise’s eyes widened and her free hand darted to her waist-length hair. “What? But that’s ridiculous! Why should I have to cut off my hair just for some flowers?”

The witch shrugged. “You don’t have to, child, but if you don’t you’ll end up cursed. And I won’t help you unless you pay the forest’s price. Let me get my scissors and we’ll go back to where you got the tulips from. I’ll cut your hair for you so it’ll still look nice and we’ll leave your hair there.”

Hot, angry tears filled Elise’s eyes. She loved her long hair. Nobody in the village had hair as long as hers and she knew the boys watched her because of it. Elise was fourteen and just old enough to be paying attention to boys and what they thought of her appearance. “I don’t want to cut my hair!”

“Well, then I guess you don’t want to save your mother, either.” The woman’s voice was blunt and uncaring. “Make your decision. I’ll be back with the scissors.” She turned and entered the cottage through the wooden door that had been painted a light shade of blue-gray.

The tears spilled down Elise’s cheeks and she crossed her arms over her just-budding breasts and stamped one tiny foot on the ground. It just wasn’t fair. Surely the witch was making things up just to humiliate her. Still, by the time the woman came back out Elise had made her decision. Her mother was more important to her than her hair, after all.

The witch didn’t even ask what Elise had decided. She simply started walking down the path the way Elise had come without glancing back. Elise followed the witch at a slower pace, a pouting expression on her face. Somehow, it didn’t take as long to reach the spot where Elise had picked the tulips as it had for Elise to get from the spot to the witch’s cottage, but Elise didn’t question it. She stood, sniffling quietly as the witch cut her hair.

The long locks fell away and landed on the flowers and when the witch was done Elise’s hair brushed the bottom of her chin, but went no further. The fourteen-year-old girl covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

For a moment, the witch stood there and let the girl cry, but then the older woman put an arm around Elise’s slender shoulders and rubbed the girl’s arm in a way clearly meant to be comforting. “It’ll grow back quickly, dear. By the time the tulips bloom next year your hair will be back to the length it was before. That’s one of the nice things about magic. You have to pay a price, but the price is always fair. Now why don’t we go and see your mother so I can figure out what’s wrong with her? I won’t know what needs to be done until I’ve seen her for myself.”

Elise nodded and an hour later she and the witch were in front of the small log house that was Elise’s home. The girl opened the door and led the woman inside and toward the small bedroom at the back.

The witch studied the older woman sleeping in the bed and covered by a worn patchwork quilt without saying a word. After several minutes she put her hand on Elise’s back and guided her out of the room and back to the tiny sitting room at the front of the house. “You’re right. Your mother is very ill and there’s nothing a doctor could do for her.

I could make a potion, but as you learned with the flowers, magic requires a price of equal value. If you don’t pay the price for the potion, then your mother will be dead by the next full moon.

“What’s the price?” Elise asked nervously. If she had to die to save her mother then she knew she couldn’t pay it. Her mother would be furious to find out that she’d died to save her after all.

The witch was serious as she studied the young girl’s face. “To make the potion and save your mother you’ll have to give up your life here and join me in the forest as my apprentice. Of course you’ll still be able to come and visit your friends and you’ll have time to yourself, but that’s the price.”

Elise’s eyes widened in horror. That was almost as bad as having to die. “I have to become a witch?” she squeaked.

The witch nodded. “That’s right. It’s the only price I’m willing to ask of you to save your mother. I’m sure your mother wouldn’t be happy with any of the other options, since they’re things like you dying or sacrificing a limb. I’m not fond of those prices either, so I never ask them.”

Elise looked toward the door into the bedroom where her mother was sleeping. For several minutes she struggled with herself as she tried to decide if the price was one she could pay. Eventually the desire for her mother’s life won over Elise’s desire for freedom and she bowed her head, her sky blue eyes filled with tears. “Alright. I’ll do it,” she said in a quiet voice.

The witch smiled. “Well, then let’s go back to my cottage and get started making that potion,” she said cheerfully. “Your mother will be better in no time at all.”

General Rules and Instructions

Princesses and Princes

1. You will go to each table at the party. Talk to the children, be cheerful, be creative.

(Note: Some children may ask you to sing to them. Elsa, give it your best.)

2. Protect children from the villain. They will be scared.

3. If you are asked questions, answer the best you can. (Note: There will be no pixie dust or

glitter flung around the basement, Tinker Bell.)

4. Be magical!

Villains

1. Do not approach the tables. You do not approach children; your role is to simply be

present. If children want pictures with you, they will come to you.

2. You are scary. Be scary. Be dramatic. Steal the show.

3. You can insult people without hurting their feelings (Note: Good insults take practice. Do

not practice insulting people unless you’re dressed appropriately).

4. You have an agenda; fulfill it.

First two thoughts? My usual agenda is cursing children. How am I supposed to fulfill that when

you told me I can’t approach them? Second, it’s rather ironic that I’ve been given a bunch of

rules and I’m expected to follow them. Most villains apply the adage ‘rules were made to be

broken.’ So am I a villain or not?

The Quality of Mercy

The chemical smell of disinfectant and the sickly tang of immanent death permeated the

bedroom where Mercy's father lay. The soft, laborious wheezing of her father's lungs was assisted by an

oxygen tank that seemed ineffectual in its monumental task, but the meager beeping of the heart

monitor announced that, for now, his heart still moved. The Hospice nurse, who came by early every

morning to take her father's vitals, change his IV site, and ensure Mercy kept his medicines on schedule,

had already left for the day. The evening nurse wouldn't be stopping by till later that night.

Her father, Richard, had been diagnosed with congestive heart failure some fifteen years before,

when Mercy was only ten. The disease had progressed slowly, allowing him to stay alive, but not really

to live. Its threat didn't stop Richard from indulging in the rich foods and alcohol that had created the

situation in the first place. He had always said, in his jocular way, that he wasn't going to live very long

anyway, so why not enjoy his days while they lasted. Mercy's mother had worried over him like a

mother hen, tending to his every need, even though her own were never met.

Hearing a grunt , Mercy stood up from her chair in the corner to peek at her father's face. It was

always a shock for her to see him at death's door at the age of forty eight. His corpulent body had not

aged well, but his face still looked quite young. He must have been peacefully dreaming, she thought.

His face was relaxed for once, not tensed and pinched with the stress of pain as it had constantly been

the many weeks before. To Mercy's relief, the doctor's had recently ordered that a morphine drip be

added to his IV.

Richard's serene face made Mercy remember the many times in her youth when her father still

had steady employment. He used to come home gleeful, hugging and kissing her mother, spinning her

around with a hearty laugh before asking where they'd like to have dinner. That had ended not long

after his diagnosis. Mercy remembered him missing weeks of work, always begging off that he didn't feel

well. His frustrated employers soon found reasons why they could no longer keep him around.

Mercy theorized that it was the stress of her father's unemployment, which had forced her

mother to work multiple shifts and long hours as a waitress, that was the main reason her parents

fondness for one another came to an end. However, it was after her mother's sudden death, when

Mercy went over her mother's papers, that she realized it was the affair Richard had with another

woman in the early years of his marriage, that had caused her parent's relationship to go sour. Mercy

still questioned why her mother would have stayed with her father once she found out about the affair.

The diary Mercy found had clearly chronicled her mother's feelings of unmitigated loss and betrayal, but

did not elucidate why she had chosen to stay. With the car accident, only ten weeks before, that had

taken her mother's life, it was now unlikely Mercy would ever know her mother's reasons why.

Richard grunted in his sleep once more, the skin on the bridge of his nose pinched together in

that pained expression Mercy had grown to know so well. She went to his side, checking to see that the

hanging bags of fluid were full. She felt like she'd already lived through hell and back those past ten

weeks, taking over her mothers daily duties in calming her father's ever-increasing pain, and taking care

of his ever-more-demanding physical needs. Mercy grieved the loss of her mother, who'd decided to

care for Richard herself rather than strand him in a palliative care center. It wasn't the horrendous cost

of the care that had made Mercy's mother decide to bring him home. It was more the concern that

Richard would have the comforts of home and familiar companionship during his last days of life.

Mercy wondered if Richard had ever considered her mother's feelings. His affair had taken place

within a year of Mercy's birth. She had feared the possibility that it was her own birth that had spurred

his decision to betray her mother. She questioned whether he had even loved her mother. She

questioned if he had ever loved her. There were too many questions, and there were never going to be

enough answers. How could Mercy ask him these nagging questions? She couldn't bring herself to hurt

him further when he was already at death's door.

“Mercy.” Her father's stertorous voice wheezed out her name, and Mercy quickly bent closer. “It

hurts.” His eyes, open for a brief moment, closed again. Mercy panicked, wondering how he could feel

the pain from the morphine-induced haze he should have been experiencing.

She checked the flow of the bags, folding back the thin blanket in order to check the line going to

his vein. His arm was dangerously swollen with fluid, causing it to resemble a taut water balloon. Quickly

surmising that his vein must have blown, Mercy realized his last dose of morphine would soon wear off.

He would be left without any remedy for the unrelenting pain he would quickly begin to feel.

Fearing her father would overhear, she walked into the other room, dialing the hospice nurse as

she went. There was no answer. Mercy left a hasty message, then dialed the office that had sent the

nurse, quickly explained the situation. The office told her they'd try to contact their employee, and call

Mercy back.

Time passed. Richard woke fully, his face becoming ever-more pinched and strained. He

whimpered once again that he was in pain, and Mercy attempted to calm him by sponging his face with

cool water. But as an hour went by, his pain turned into something cruel and ugly. His heart monitor

beat a rapid staccato that Mercy knew it wasn't capable of maintaining. His body contorted with the

agony he felt, and Mercy had to restrain him, putting up the bed's side-bars to keep him from falling out.

As Richard's pain grew ever more intense, he began to call out her name, “Mercy! Mercy!”

She scurried from the room, feverishly calling the nurse once again. But once again, there was

no answer.

She thought about pulling the IV line herself and starting a new one. But she hadn't ever

performed that procedure, and was afraid of causing her father further pain.

There was only one alternative she could think of. The doctors had prescribed a back-up supply

of needle-less, morphine-filled syringes, just in case of an emergency. Mercy went to the closet and

found the stash she never thought she'd have to use. Pulling one out, Mercy tucked the blunt tip of the

syringe between his tongue and cheek – where the nurses had previously shown her – and slowly

squeezed a third of the fluid into his mouth, massaging his neck to ensure it had all gone down.

“Mercy,” he wheezed, his pained eyes looked hopefully up at her as he called her name.

“What can I do?” She asked, not knowing how to soothe his agony.

“Sing,” he croaked, “the song you liked when you were sick.”

A distant memory suddenly filled her mind – her father sitting at a beat-up piano while she laid

on a lumpy old couch – and haltingly, Mercy began to sing.

“Gonna take a sentimental journey, gonna set my heart at ease. Gonna take a sentimental

journey, to renew old memories.”

Her fathers eyes were still squished up, and his knuckles were white as they gripped the bars of

his bed. The pace of his heart hadn't changed much with the first dose, so Mercy gave him another third

of the syringe and kept singing. “Got my bag, got my reservation. Spent each dime I could afford. Like a

child in wild anticipation, long to hear that 'all aboard'.”

How Mercy remembered the words was a mystery. It had been decades since her father had

owned a piano or had sung that song. She had never known he'd intentionally played it for her. Mercy

came to the bridge, and suddenly, her voice faltered, “Seven, that's the time we leave, at seven. I'll be

waiting up for heaven, counting every mile of railroad track that takes me back.”

The heart monitor beeped a fraction more slowly. Mercy blinked tears out of her eyes, and tried

to keep her voice steady as she gave him the last of the syringe and massaged it down his throat. The

morphine was helping, but not enough. Richard still lay clenched in agony. Mercy hesitantly retrieved a

second syringe out the closet, surmising that the dosage wouldn't be too far off what the drip had been

feeding her father for the last hour – if she gave it to him slowly.

“Never thought my heart could be so 'yearny'.” Mercy continued the song shakily, giving him a

third of the second syringe. “Why did I decide to roam? Gotta take a sentimental journey, sentimental

journey home.” She sobbed the last sentence, watching the morphine finally taking hold. Her father's

hands relaxed from the bars of his bed, his eyes closed as his face returned to the peaceful repose of the

hour before. She checked his breathing, and it seemed stable. Breathing a sigh of relief, Mercy collapsed

into her chair, feeling that the moment of crisis was over.

Within minutes, She knew she was wrong. The beeping of Richard's heart grew ever slower, until

the heart monitor sang out a whining, continuous buzz.

Richard was dead.

There was no point in trying to bring him back. The “Do Not Resuscitate” forms had been

explained when he'd been taken him home on hospice. Mercy had known for weeks that his heart

would fail him any day. However, feelings of doubt about what she'd just done began to fill her heart

with dread. Maybe the morphine had been too much.

Another part of Mercy felt relief. Her father's life choices had, in many ways, precipitated her

own. She wasn't to blame for his failure of the heart. She had just granted him the mercy he'd always

wanted.

In Pienta National Park, the walls of the cayenne canyons seemed to grow taller each day to

those who lived there. They stood like recovering alcoholics, wise and slowly journeying to heaven just

one day at a time. Gentle. Calm. Except for the moments when a bounty of alluvium would tumble from

the hillside and into the river below, causing the waters to shout and burst in a violent mist. But when

the mists dissipated, they would reveal the swollen body of fallen stone to shimmer in the sun, resting

as the water slowly began the process of winnowing it bare, grain by grain.

Angel served in the park as chief-ranger. Her eyes, sharp and dazzling emeralds, would cut

through the stone she surveyed. Jack-rabbits would shrivel and buck at the air when they saw her. She

would note the behavior in her black leather log, unaware that she had anything to do with it.

Her pumpkin hair was stiff and dull. Her heart was an anvil. No, it was a Rubic’s Cube—

impossible for most to figure out. She had the posture of a mountain goat standing on the peak of a

mountain, overlooking the world. She only read two types of material: a) books about national park

regulations, and b) the newspaper, which was brought from town by Carmen Od, the PR of Forest

Operations Manager, when she would return from her monthly meeting with the Mayor.

“I brought a stack of papers,” Carmen said stolidly as she placed a weeks worth of newspapers

on Angel’s desk one morning. Angel was in the break room where the printer was, printing and

collecting paperwork for two employees to sign. These forms were disciplinary. Angel was writing-up

two new employees for breaking the lock on the shed door. Angel didn’t acknowledge Carmen. She

looked down, sorting through the documents and stapling groups of them together while more printed.

The weather outside the dusty window was fine. Trees swayed in a lazy breeze while the air was

decorated with floating white particles from the cottonwood trees. She glanced at the window

occasionally, not seeing.

Carmen entered the room and began brewing fresh coffee in the pot. “I heard you are writing

the new kids up for breaking the lock to the shed,” she said.

“Yep,” said Angel as she stapled the last form together.

“Is that really necessary?” Carmen breathed through her nose as the coffee began to drip into

the bottom of the pot.

“I think you know the answer, Castillo.” Angel looked toward her from her post by the printer.

“They weren’t being very smart, don’t ya think? We can’t let employees just do whatever they want

without consequence. Order keeps this desert from bein’ a jungle.”

“I don’t think they knew they were doing anything wrong. They needed the chainsaw to break

up and move a tree from the trail. What were they supposed to do?”

“They could have waited. People can get around trees. And it wasn’t just the lock. They

damaged the door too.”

“That shed is one piece of historical material,” Carmen said with a sarcastic smirk. “Probably

been here longer than the canyon. I’m glad there’s someone around here to protect the sanctity of it.”

“Been here longer than those two.” Angel walked out of the office and into the chardonnay

morning. The temperature was more than moderate. It was perfect. Greenery clung to the trees and the

smell of the nearby river down below gave off the scent of a good life. It was the scent of youth, of

adventure and magic. Angel did and did not think of it on these terms. She loved the river for different

reasons. She loved it because something about he river represented life away from people. The scent to

her was solitude. The sounds of the pouring and churning were the sounds of power and respect. She

valued the river for its age, for the fact that it was there everyday, for the fact that it had been there

everyday for thousands of years, and it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. She pledged allegiance to

the river.

The trail to the cabins where she walked drew up against it. She came upon a high ridge where

she glanced down at the tumbling water below. She stepped next to the edge to peer for a moment.

Suddenly, the ground from under her came loose and she was falling. She tried to grab one side

of the canyon but it was too late, and she was already moving too fast. As the air wrapped around her,

as she moved as every sense within her sounded quick alarms, she screamed. Her chest tightened, and

her arms reached for something to hold on to, as if her body knew that if she tried hard enough, she

could hang on to the sky. How did this happen, she thought. This doesn’t happen to me. Her scream

rose to its loudest height just as she crashed into the cold and magnificent green water.

When she went under, her foot hit a smooth boulder the size of a cow, sleeping on its side. Her

knee bent and cracked against the rock. Her arms flailed and she began a frantic swim upwards, pushing

the water to her side and down under her. As her head burst out of the water and into the breeze, she

screamed once again. The water was moving quickly. The current forced waves to dash against rocks like

a hair dryer blowing a cluster of curls up and over the head. But of course, that wasn’t how she thought

of it. She only thought to swim to shore and to safety. But as she tried to swim, her legs didn’t work

right. With water lodged boots and stiff broken bones, and with an unpredictable strong current, she

struggled to gain any control. Her arms over-compensated by moving double time, clashing against air

and water without deference to either.

She looked up toward the trail and yelled insane cries for help. And she saw them. Down the

river, those two new boys were taking off their boots and shirts, getting ready to jump in after her.

Damn it. She thought. Why does it have to be them?

She suddenly grew more brave, and stronger. She began swimming with her arms to the side of the river

to meet with where the ledge between the river and the trail disappeared and became a Navajo sand

shore. They grabbed her just as she began to be able to touch the sandy bottom or the shallow end.

Each man grabbed an arm and began to hoist her between them.

“Stop it!” She said. “I’ve got it.”

The two men persisted to try and help her.

“Rangers, enough. I can go from here.” They set her down and she immediately sat down in the

sand, panting. “I’m glad I ran into you two. You were just who I was looking for,” she said as she took off

one of her boots. I have written you both up for defacing the shed. I have some papers that you need to

sign, but they but I lost them just now when a tuft of escarpment broke off on the trail and sent me into

that river.” As she tried to take off her other boot, a pain jolted her chest and pulsed through her arms.

The numbness and adrenaline had worn off, and she now began to feel the pain of a broken leg bursting

into every part of her.

“Angel, are you okay?” One of the men asked. Should we get an ambulance?

Just then, she lost consciousness and seemed to fall asleep on the sand.

Magic’s End

Ilya was an iridescent green dragon with a lot on her mind. She was also perhaps not the

most intelligent of dragons, but she had passion, which her mother said made up for it. She was

also fiercely independent, which is why she felt that she was the one who needed to do

something about B.O.M.B., the Bureau of Magical Beasts. She just wasn’t quite sure what.

So in her typical way, she decided that she needed to do some recon and proceeded to go

into the B.O.M.B. offices undercover to try and persuade one of the employees to help her. After

breaking into various floors over the course of a week, she found a floor that was filled with

machines. She approached a human working on a machine as nonchalantly as she could and tried

to think of a way to broach the subject.

“Do you ever wonder,” she eventually began, startling the man working on his machine.

“Do you ever wonder about the work you do? How it affects others? Have you ever thought

there might be something wrong with this situation?”

“Er… no?” the man seemed uncomfortable and he adjusted his neck tie.

“Really? Not even once?” Ilya felt that the employee needed to question his work before

he would be willing to sabotage it.

“Well, not really, no.” He shrugged. “I didn’t think anyone thought it was all that

important.”

“Of course it’s important!” She nearly roared, but managed to keep a civilized volume.

“What you are doing will change millions of lives!”

Wow, I… well, I never really thought about it like that. Thank you. It’s nice to hear that

your work is appreciated.” The man gave Ilya a genuine smile.

“I… That wasn’t really meant to be a compliment.” She said with exasperation. “This is

not turning out at all like I expected it.” She thought for a moment about the apparent futility of

her current situation and came to a decision. “Talking is getting me nowhere. It’s time for

action!” she muttered

“Pardon?” the man said. Instead of replying, she snatched the man up in her claws and

flew out of the building, ignoring the man’s screams.

“Perhaps if you see the people that you will affect it’ll change your mind,” she said, not

as an answer to any of his questions in particular, but as a general statement. She headed for a

lake where some of her mermaid friends lived.

When they arrived, she sat the man down by the banks. “Those mermaids are practically

the only ones left,” she said, pointing. “Their homes have been destroyed by oil spills and

pollution, but they haven’t give up. They actively protest the destruction of their homes and work

to create a world with cleaner water for everyone. But it will all be for naught if your company

succeeds.”

The man just stood and watched the mermaids with a look of almost contempt.

“Not enough to convince you?” Ilya growled. She snatched the man in her claws once

more. “Come on.”

Ilya took the man to a charming forest where some fairies she knew had just moved.

They set down in a clearing and she could see the nearly completed fairy ring in the middle.

“Look closely at the fairy ring,” she instructed the man. He did so, and after a moment of

observation she could see on his face that he understood that this was a new and incomplete fairy

ring. “These fairies moved here after their previous home had been destroyed. Their old forest

was turned into books and paper cups and tables.” Ilya could see the man’s expression beginning

to soften and she pressed on. “Despite the obstacles they face, they are trying to rebuild their

community. But they will fail if your company isn’t stopped. Every magical creature will fail in

their endeavors if the magic-destroying bomb goes off.” Ilya looked the man right in the eye.

Surely he was convinced. He would help her now.

“Wait what? A bomb? What are you talking about?” he exclaimed.

She couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Was he playing a joke? “You… really don’t

know?” she asked.

“Are you sure you’re not confused?” he asked her. “B.O.M.B. is just an acronym -- they

aren’t actually a bomb.”

“Well of course they aren’t! I never said they were a bomb. They’re just building a

bomb.”

“Why would they do that?” he said incredulously. The man was truly clueless.

“They want to get rid of all magic--and by extension all magical creatures as well.” Ilya

tried to stay calm as she explained, but she was acutely aware that time was running out.

“Good heavens. That seems a bit extreme.” The man was frustratingly calm.

“That’s because it is extreme.” Ilya tried to keep the growing desperation out of her

voice. “But it can still be stopped. If you help me.”

“Of course I’ll help you! What do you need me to do?”

Ilya cheered inwardly. Finally, he was on her side. “You need to disarm the bomb,” she

told him.

“Ok,” he said with a blank look, “how do I do that?”

Ilya blinked. “You… well, don’t you know how to disarm a bomb?” A tiny worm of

doubt was starting to wriggle in the back of her mind. “Don’t they teach you that sort of thing in

graduate school?”

“Why would they teach accountants how to disarm bombs?!?”

“What? Of course they wouldn't teach accountants that. Why are you even bringing that

up?” Ilya tried not to just snap him up in her frustration. She could feel the minutes slipping

away. “We don't have much time; we need to focus.”

“I haven't the faintest idea how to disarm a bomb. I'm just an accountant!”

“Wait you're… you're an accountant?” Ilya couldn’t believe it. “Are you sure you aren't

some sort of… electrical engineer or something?” she tried hopefully.

“Pretty sure. Sorry.” The man shrugged.

“But… but I saw you!” she accused, “Using one of those little machine boxes.”

“A computer? Everyone knows how to use those.” he said in a voice that was too calm.

“I see…” Ilya didn’t know what to do. “You… really can’t help then.”

“Not with disarming the bomb, no.” he said apologetically. “ But maybe I can help you

find someone who can disarm the bomb,” he offered. “When is it supposed to go off?”

“It’s no use,” Ilya said morosely. They didn’t have time to convince someone new before

the bomb went off. It was all over. “The bomb will be going off any-”

She was interrupted by thunderous boom that echoed across all of England. An immense

shockwave followed moments after, stripping even the very air of magic. Afterward the air was

still, and the accountant was the only sentient creature in the clearing. All traces of magic had

been destroyed.

The Start of a New Beginning

Aeldra stood, erect as ever, in his hidden courtyard, grateful that though his palace rested on

the highest hill, he was still hidden to peeping eyes. He stared around at his new creations, shaking

his head in irritation. True, they were magnificent; the dark ones with their skin of rock, the tall ones

with their limber build, the small ones with their glowing countenances, the bright ones with their

brains of intellect and his favorite, the fierce ones with their skin of dragon scales. Each was created

after a similar manner to Aeldra—they would all live and breathe and talk and walk and create things

of their own. Yet no matter how extraordinary these species were, they were the norm for what

Aeldra could do. Their living presence did not bring him any satisfaction. And that wasn’t just

because he currently had them all in a very deep sleep.

No, Aeldra had not merely created these folk out of sport; though he supposed boredom was

a part of it. Aeldra had built them because of Sage and Edric; the sons he swore up and down were

not as lazy and spoiled as the other gods and goddesses in his kingdom made them out to be. And

though neither of them had remembered to be here and Aeldra had needed to fetch them, he was

determined to continue with his plan to reveal their brilliance.

Of both his sons, Sage was the one who had inherited Aeldra’s curly hair, though Aeldra’s

was a much darker brown and was complete with a full beard. Edric, on the other hand, had straight

brown hair, which complimented his strong, yet tall build. Sage had the brains in the family, and

Edric had the strength and pride. Aeldra was interested to see which one would pass his test.

“Now, you both know, I presume, the reason for our little meeting today?” Aeldra questioned

his sons, once he had returned to the courtyard with them. His voice boomed and echoed strongly

around the walls.

“Yes, Father,” Sage answered readily. “If my memory is correct, you called us here to duel in

a battle of wits so that we can decide who gets to keep track of them.” He jerked his thumb toward

the sleeping group that his father had created.

“Precisely,” Aeldra responded, giving Sage a grim smile. Edric scowled.

“And what should happen then?” Edric asked. “What are we, that is to say, the winner,

supposed to do with them?”

“Let them be, of course,” Aeldra said, as if this was the simplest answer in the world. “Put

them in the world I created and watch over them. But of course you should know this already, Son.

For it is the test that lies before you”

Edric lowered his eyebrows in disgust. They all knew that when it came to brains, Sage was

the the more gifted one. It would seem Aeldra had designed this battle for Sage to win. “And what

should happen to the loser?” he asked warily.

“That remains to be seen,” Aeldra answered. “Now, the rules are that you can only only use

your own brains and experience to answer these questions. No asking me questions and no running to

the library for research. You also only have a total of ten seconds before your time and the question

is passed to the next brother. I will ask each of you five questions and they will all be from a different

category: ‘yes or no’, ‘what would you do?’, ‘how well do you know . . .’, ‘true or false’ and then

one more ‘what would you do?’ question. If by chance there is a tie then we will have a tie-breaking

battle of strength. Understand?”

“Yes, Father,” they both said at the same time.

“Good. Now, Edric, since you’re the oldest, we will start with you. Question number 1: Is the

light coming off the Heron because of their intelligence?”

Edric thought for a moment, gazing toward the groups of species that his father had created.

He now regretted not studying as much as his father had told him to. He looked at the two groups that

were lit with light and wondered which ones the Heron were. One group was full of smaller figures,

each one with hair that seemed to emanate the brilliance of the sun. They looked so peaceful looking.

The other group was tall with long faces and long hair. The taller group looked like elves to him,

which, he did remember were more intelligent than most of the other groups.

“No,” he answered, with a few seconds to spare.

“Correct! The Heron’s light is there because of their purity.”

“Now, Sage, your turn. Would the Khazuk fight with the dark ones?”

Sage veered his eyes toward the dark but hard people to his left. He racked his brains for who

the Khazuk were and then remembered reading that they were the ones with dragon scales as skin.

His father had written that the Khazuk, due to their surely power, stayed out of other people’s

business. He remembered his confusion at reading this and answered readily, “No. The Khazuk put

too much stock in their own power and keep to themselves.”

“Correct! Now, Edric, your turn again. What would you do if the elves decided to fight with

the other tall ones? Would you try to stop the fight? Or would you let them fight and see what

happens?”

Edric looked toward both groups of tall ones—the elves and the ones with olive skin, dark

hair and slanted eyes. Though the elves were dressed in similar to his own, the other tall ones were

dressed in what looked like leathery clothes that belonged in the wild parts that he had read about

during his short time at the library. Then he scoffed at the question. He wondered if his father caught

that he had revealed the answer during his explanation of their battle of wits. “Let them fight it out.

But if it were me, and it looked like one of the species was about to go extinct from the fighting, then

I would probably intervene somehow in a subtle way.”

“Interesting. What would that subtle way be?”

Edric shrugged. “I’d probably send some kind of person to intervene and make things right

again. Someone who’s more powerful than both of them.”

Aeldra nodded. “Okay. Keep that idea. And you get the question right. Now, Sage, it’s your

turn again. What would you do if one of these species outsmarted the other and led other species

astray from what they knew to be true. Would you reveal to them their original traditions? Or would

you let things evolve?

Sage stroked his chin, thinking hard on his answer. While tradition was good, change was

also good. However, change because of someone outsmarting you was difficult to chew. As far as he

knew, he and his father were the only ones that were allowed to do that. With little time he said, “I

don’t like the outsmarting idea, but I also don’t think I’m allowed to intervene. So I would watch and

see what happens.” Though this wasn’t his correct answer, he knew that it was the one Aeldra was

looking for.

“Correct!” Aeldra said. “Now, Edric, I want you to tell me everything you know about the

dark ones.”

Edric sighed and started spouting off anything he could think of. “They’re dark and hard as

rock, which makes them lethal. And just because they’re dark-skinned doesn’t mean that they’re dark

on the inside. They’re pretty reasonable, unless they get double-crossed.”

“Precisely. They’re also very crafty. You did leave that part out but for the most part, your

answer was correct. Sage, you again, what is the difference between the other tall ones and the

regulars? Other than the obvious difference in height and illumination?”

Sage considered the question. He assumed that his father was looking for an answer that

described their habits so he thought back to how each one would presumably live their lives, if all

went according to plan. Already, he was considering things that he would do, should he be the ruler

of their world. For one thing, he would be sure to keep these two tall ones away from each other, as

both were extremely gifted in their areas and also equally as stubborn. Though they would make

incredible allies, should they decide they wanted to be. Which made him rethink his desire to keep

them apart. Sage smiled to himself; this sort of thought process was what Aeldra would consider

“thinking like a god.”

“Their main difference is what they use their intelligence for, as they both are really

intelligent. The elves would use their intelligence to learn more about the world. They understand

things that the other species don’t and therefore have a very unique branch of magic. They are one

with all plant life and forestry and because of that, they dwell in the forest. The other tall ones use

their intelligence for combat. They’re tall and flexible, which gives them a clean advantage over

other armies. They specialize in weaponry but they’re also fond of laughter and merriment. They like

to socialize with other groups because they prefer to seek out allies and they dwell wherever they

want to, all over the place.”

“Excellent answer! Now, Edric, true or false—the ones who look just like you can’t produce

any magic.”

Edric began sweating. This was certainly a question he would have to get right out of luck.

He looked at the group they hadn’t touched on yet and frowned at their average frames and varying

degrees of skin color. Time was running up, though, and on a whim he said, “No. That’s what makes

them special.”

Aeldra shook his head and frowned for the first time since the battle of wits had began.

“Incorrect. Sage, you get the same question as your brother: are the ones who look like you able to

produce magic? Remember, if you get this question right, then you win the duel.”

Edric glared at his younger brother, daring him answer correctly.

But Sage didn’t care. He’d had his answer ready before the question had even come to him,

having studied about this particular group of people as they were similar to himself. “That’s a trick

question, isn’t it? They don’t have the ability to cast spells, as some of the others do, like the elves

and the khazuk. But like the dark ones and the olive ones, they are able to produce magical things. In

fact, it is potions that they produce, is it not?”

“Precisely!” Aeldra said, delighted. “I believe we have a winner! Sage, I give you charge

over all these inhabitants and I trust that you should choose wisely on what to do with them and how

to rule over them.” He placed a hand on his youngest son’s shoulder and smiled at him with triumph.

Sage could hardly believe it. This morning he had awoken as a normal god. But now, he was to have

a world of his own.

Edric coughed behind him to remind him that he was there. “Ah, and let’s not forget my

other son.” Aeldra removed his hand from Sage’s shoulder and turned to face Edric, clearly unaware

of the potent false-confidence that was radiating off him. “Edric, although you did lose this battle of

wits, you still showed great worth. And for that, I shall help you create your own world. For this

battle wasn’t a simple test of who was the best; it was a way for you both to prove yourselves. And

both of you have. I know what you are both capable of and I trust that you, in time, will figure that

out as well. And the best way to do that, is through opportunity. So, we start tonight, Edric.”

Edric smiled and bowed slightly to his father. For the first time in his life, he was genuinely

pleased. “Yes, Father. Thank you.”

And so was the story of how Edric’s and Sage’s worlds were created. As Aeldra predicted,

Edric’s world held more magic and turmoil than most, yet it was bound with the strongest of

relationships. Sage’s was full of trickery and brains, which pleased Aeldra, for this was exactly what

he had hoped when he had created its inhabitants. Both held unbelievable tales. But if you want to

read those, you’ll have to search other books.

White Water

Waiting from a distance under the shade of an Elm, I was close enough to hear the sweet

giggles of the young mother as her husband wrestled with a blanket against the wind. “You

picked a great day to come out here” he had said as he gave up and started looking for rocks to

hold the blanket down. “Here, you hold this corner while I put a rock on this one”. The mother,

her hair coming unpinned, took her corner of the blanket and stooped to hold it down.

The children, Grace and her older brother Charlie, played near the bank while their

parents set up for the picnic. “Feel the water. It’s freezing” the boy had told her. Grace climbed

up onto a flat rock and turn toward Charlie. “You’re not going to push me in are you?” she

asked.

“No way! You’d be washed away. Maybe you should come down here to stick your hand

in so you don’t have to lean over.”

Grace looked at him. She seemed to study him to see if he was telling the truth. When

she looked up, she looked straight at me. She can’t really see me, I thought. No one can see me.

Then she pointed and I froze. “Who’s that beneath that tree?” she asked.

Turning his head, Charlie stared at the tree. “Who’s who? I don’t see anyone.”

How could she see me? No one’s supposed to see me. I stood still and exposed. I wanted

to turn and run. It can’t be her I take today.

Leaning forward she placed her hands on her knees and squinted her eyes perhaps to get a

better view. “I can’t see his face. He’s wearing a hood. Look. He’s trying to hide now behind the

tree” she said as I scrambled around the wide trunk.

“There’s no one there” Charlie said. “You’re just fooling around”.

“Am not. I really saw someone. He’s just hiding now”

“Just feel the water will you” he pushed.

“Mom said we’re not allowed. She said we might get sucked in. I’m going to tell her you

touched the water” she threatened.

“Oh! I just felt it a little. It doesn’t hurt to just feel it. Just stick a finger in.” Charlie

persuaded.

“Fine, but if I fall in I’m telling mom it was your fault.”

Little six year old Grace in her sunflower dress and white Mary Jane’s turned around and

inched toward the edge of the rocks. The water had splashed up and soaked the surface. It must

have made it slick. As Grace bent down to lean over the edge her foot slid forward. Then her

body sort of twisted as she tried to catch anything she could, but there was nothing except the flat

rock. Her dainty fingers scraped and clawed. I heard her shriek and I just watched, peaking from

behind the elm tree, while Grace struggled for a moment and then plummeted. Charlie had

lunged forward, had tried to grab her hand, but he wasn’t quick enough, and Grace’s amber curls

disappeared beneath the rumbling water.

The rangers found Grace’s body two miles downstream wedged between some rocks

where the water slowed and pooled in the wider part of the river. She had stopped breathing long

before, but I hadn’t taken her yet. It wasn’t until I saw her body start to swell from too much

water that I knew I had to draw her out. I hated taking the children, but when the life’s gone,

when the body fails, there’s nothing else to do. I drew out her spirit and sent it off as rapid as the

white water had carried her.

I wondered about that day for a long time. Was it just the girl who could see me? Was

there something about her? I looked for signs in the dying. I stood over the gurneys of bloody

men and stared deep in their eyes. I tried to force my presence on those who stood on ledges, and

positioned myself in the center of the masses before disaster struck. But no one saw me. No one

pointed and asked “who’s that”. There was once, however, when a man lay in a hospital bed. He

was tangled up in tubes and a machine beeped slowly. He was elderly, frail, and alone. Just

before he died his eyes flickered to mine, but only for a second. He didn’t speak. He just closed

his eyes and the machine rang a constant note. I thought for sure he saw me with the way his

eyes fixed on mine, but there was no way to really be sure.

I had visited this place often during the slow seasons of the summers when less people

were dying. I could sit here for hours and just think. Over time the land changed. When the rain

stopped coming the river slowed, the leaves started to shrivel and crumble, and the wild grass

and weeds became prickly and sharp. Families stopped picnicking and camping, and the territory

became a stripling stomping ground. The youth would urinate in the receding river, drink until

they couldn’t stand, vomit, and pass out. When the sun started rising they would leave, and they

left the land shimmering with broken glass and cigarette butts.

Years of no rain and only lightning started fires and the last of the green was burned and

the ground blackened and cracked. The roaring river stopped rushing toward the south mountains

and evaporated to a stream and then to a wide, dry trench. The white water was gone, and with it

went the willows and long tangled grass.

Fifty years after Grace drowned I sat on a ledge that protruded from the middle of the

north red cliffs waiting for a man named Charlie to die. The sky was clear like star spackled

glass, and the moon seemed to roll along the peaks of the black mountains in the distance casting

a dull, gray glow over the red rock and burnt sand. Dark shadows branched out from the

remaining bare and brittle trees. I could smell the sage brush and dirt, and when the wind blew I

could almost taste the exhaust from the few motorists traveling on the old road to the east.

Somewhere a western screech owl trilled, and I could hear the whine of bats and mice.

I looked down at the desert and took in the night, still wondering. I thought perhaps I had

it all wrong. There was no one dying here. Maybe Charlie wasn’t coming at all. Then I saw the

yellow lights of an old coupe bounce on the old east road. As they neared, the motorist turned off

and drove toward the dry trench. Dust raised up from the ground around the tires and the engine

clunked when it came to a stop. Charlie, who was in his sixties now, got out of the car and sat on

the edge of the trench. His legs dangled over the side like he was trying to feel the water rush

around them again. I went down to stand behind him. I was close enough I could hear his heavy

breath and see him wipe tears from his face.

“I knew you would be here”. He said without turning. “I know who you are. You were

here when my baby sister drowned. She could see you, but I couldn’t at the time. I wasn’t about

to die”. I wasn’t surprised this time. I suspected he might be able to see me now. Now that he

was the one about the die.

“I didn’t know it was going to be Grace that died that day” I told him.

“I guess there was nothing that could have been done. I shouldn’t have told her to feel

that water. Our mother had warned us and still I pressed her to do it. I might as well have pushed

her in myself.”

“Do you come here often?” I changed the subject. I didn’t want to talk about little Grace.

I don’t know why I even spoke to him to begin with. Perhaps I should have waited on the cliff. I

was only prolonging his death. But I needed to know for sure if he could see me. I wanted to

know if I could be heard.

“About once a year” the man said. “This is the last time, but I guess you already know

that since you’re here.” Charlie shifted his head from side to side, slowly, like he was taking in

the land for the last time. “I was hoping to see this place grow again. I was hoping the river

would flow and the green would come back. Do you think it will ever come back like it was?”

“Perhaps”.

“Well, I won’t keep you waiting” the man said as he pulled a small revolver from his

belt. I watched, silent, while his hands trembled. I wasn’t sure if he shook from old age or fear. It

was over quick. He pressed the gun against his temple and then his blood ran dark into the

trench. In the distance, clouds crawled over the south mountains. I watched for hours as they

came closer and grew dark beneath the moon. There was a slow rumble, and I felt the pattering

of rain.