The Sorcerers

Below is the first draft of Beggledert: The Sorcerers.

My quill stops. It hovers in the evening air above parchment. In a gilded mirror, I glimpse my furrowed brows over worried green eyes, and note that my long black moustache and beard should have been trimmed during the waxing of the last full moon. Exiling the reflection, I focus once more on twilight beyond my window.

I see the east and north horizons. The eastern sky is for lullabies and lovers, but the northern bears an omen that I recognize the way one does an old enemy. An angry storm travels with an ominous companion. In my refuge on a hill, solace saves me from desperation.

Downstairs, I hear sounds of home. My love is chastising our three terrors—two boys and one girl all under ten. She had returned from outside with a basket of fresh fruit from the pear tree to find her favorite pottery broken in the drawing room, the casualty of an egregious playing of Hoodman's Blind.

In the game, one person is designated as "It" and becomes blind when a hood is put over its head. The blind gamer frantically runs around, trying to catch the next victim. Any person caught becomes "It" and is hooded. The game is also called Blind Man's Bluff.

Ah, an "inside the cottage etiquette lesson" is finally done. Contrite, the children clean up their mess, then rush to their mother for forgiveness hugs.

"Octavius," my love calls, "we’re ready for dinner." She and the children are setting the table in the kitchen near the inglenook fireplace. "Are you up there journaling, again?"

The children laugh as they scurry to seats around the oak table. They hear the familiar irritation in their mother's voice, but not for them this time. I mumble an answer that drifts downstairs. My primary focus is elsewhere.

I will do whatever it takes to keep my family safe forever.

A sudden breeze from the open window ruffles the feather of my quill pen. Still, it hovers in the air without the touch of my hands. The stir of feather barbs feels like a cue: I will soon resume my sorcery journaling, witnessing and writing, as is my sacred duty. This is an honor of lineage passed down from my treasured mother and her revered father.

My thoughts flow from mind to quill, quill to parchment:

Twilight, in my village of Beggledert, is renowned for the beauty of huge twinkling stars in a dark caerulean corridor between day and night–and it is imbued with magic. Sorcery lights candles to welcome the intimacy of dusk or extinguishes flames in the ritual of greeting dawn. It is not unusual to hear echoes in the wind of neighbors debating the best spell to cure your pet dragon’s cold, or affirming which flip of the wrist nuance conjures up the tastiest Beggledert Stew.

At this moment, candles are flaring on the windowsills of cozy thatch and stone cottages. Ah, and a large number of neighborly debates stir in the wind.

"Octavius, we will start without you. The children are starving." They are always starving.

I love the bon sprit of Beggledert villagers, the richly diverse descendants of post-war settlers who founded the village five hundred years ago. The founders united to live in peace. Now, like a mural layered with colors, distinct and blended, we are the many within the one.

Throughout the day and night in Beggledert, horse-drawn carriages and carts preserve a sense of quaintness, though omnipresent libraries exhibit exquisite drawings of vintage, horseless wheel and axle transports rumored to rival sorcery.

Librarians never fail to attract loyal legions, but teahouse owners can boast of even greater foot traffic. At three o’clock every afternoon, the bustling commerce of village life stops for an hour. It is time for our beloved cream tea. Even on days of worship, this hour is a tradition.

Teapots are like jewels centered in crowns, on tables filled with savories and sweets. Tiered dishes display meat panecillos and scones waiting for clotted cream and jam. For villagers who fancy something stronger than tea to wet their whistles, draughts of ale or Port accompany the miniature feasts but are enjoyed only after honoring the ceremonial cuppas.

On occasion, a teahouse host is shocked by the need to lecture a newcomer on cream tea.

"What on earth are you doing with your scone, mate? Everybody knows, first you layer your scone halves with strawberry jam, then you dollop the jam with clotted cream. Oh, Lord, not the reverse."

Only a non-Begglederter would need the Cream Tea Lesson. Our babies are brought to tea before they cut their first teeth. However, all village visitors are welcome, even when arriving without social graces. Guests can find hospitable, comfortable lodging at the ÓSíorán Inn.

"Octavius," my diligent lady of the manor calls, but I do not hear everything that she says. My history-mapping has become intense.

The ÓSíoráns have managed the village’s only inn for over two centuries. Elrod ÓSíorán and his life partner Oni Kamali Els, the current proprietors, deliver hearth-and-home coziness to dignitaries and equally to those who are down on their luck. Lodging for the latter is a Beggledert Humanitarian Council largesse.

All of this sounds suspiciously sweet, but like the jam dolloped by clotted cream, sweet is an aspect of our traditions, and it is guileless.

I fear that our tradition trademark and peace are about to be threatened.

This eve’s twilight is the backdrop for something wicked slouching toward Beggledert. On the north horizon, deadly white fingernails of lightning are raking towering black clouds, so tall that I imagine their peaks disappearing from sight on earth and reappearing in heaven. Every few minutes, the clouds halt and hover. That is not all. Haunting the clouds is an omen, woeful weeping–falling from the clouds.

Does anyone else hear it? The weeping is at a level of sorcery that I know not all can perceive.

I plague myself with more questions, though I know the answers. They are buried deep down, lying restlessly with old nightmares. What mystery is encroaching fast, riding the spring wind? What invasion is closing in on my little village of cheerful sorcerers with their love of pet dragons, cream tea, and Beggledert Stew?

My cherished quill of blending blue and lavender hues stops again as I watch for cumulonimbus signs to confirm my presentiments. It stands at-the-ready.

Floating over the threshold of my study door is a resplendent tray.

Did my love tell me it was coming?

The food is steaming and fills the room with smells of stew and yeast bread, pastries, and family. The tray nestles itself near folds of parchment on my desk.

I smile and look at the raven-haired beauty in the painting on the wall across from my desk. Andraeya. I resolve to leave my worries, in a few more minutes, and wrap myself in her warmth.

I am ready to finish penning history tinged with premonitions, writing on parchment that spills from desk to floor. My stone floor is covered with beautifully crafted Beggledertean rugs, pottery, and spell-locked chests. Annals of love and war for generations lay before me in those chests. More lay hidden in coastal caverns protected by fire-breathing guards that will not hesitate to violently take the lives of trespassers, or spare those who charm them with an Old World command conjured with the esoteric language of The Ancestors.

And I write:

Tonight, I fear my journaling will serve as prelude for an imminent war. My ancestors witnessed this weeping storm omen before. My parents first told me of it in a fairytale. The battles that followed the omen were epic and catastrophic.

I cast sorcery glances at the chests of memories on the floor but continue journaling.

Blessed are The Ancestors. Most died in The Great War, sacrificed themselves that We might live.

Heavy wooden lids unlock and flip open. With the lessons learned from countless lives lost in an epic war, I will be ready to do whatever I must.

Quietly, warm arms embrace me from behind: Andraeya, my sorceress. I am surprised at how easily I am startled. Warriors should never be startled.

Andraeya. I will do anything to keep this woman and our children safe.

I write my final words for the night.

Upon the memories of the spilled blood of The Ancestors, I swear: I will be ready for the war we hoped would never come, ready for The Blood Sorcerer's Return.

– Octavius CXX-IX

My quill rests in its inkwell.