The Wicked Wand by Steve Shilstone Read Free Book Online Page B

the waterwizard, approaching, reaching up, and snapping me from the tree. Free! Oh, free! The surge of magic! I clutched it! ‘What be this? Aha, wand. Ye be a stormy chaos of magic full without my intervention. Ye be a wand ready made. A jolt. How long have ye been watching me?’ said Briny Brook, narrowing his ice blue gaze. I would have answered him, but I had no firm hold of this magic voice that ye be hearing. I could not reply. I itched with mischief, secret mischief. Mischief then, not now. I speak to ye. I do not hide. Ye be the first creatures to hear my voice. (Kar shivered with joy beside me.) Now, ye see, I have nothing to hide. Back then, I hid my itch for mischief.
    â€œAfter I were plucked from the tree, there followed days of glory. I were plunged down held in Briny Brook’s hand to the bottom of the pool. Cool caress. Bubbles. Floating. I took in every new sensation and measured out magic in the smallest of doses, and only when Briny Brook tapped me three times. ‘So this be how ye work,’ he said as I silently trained him to do my bidding. This were how I did it. I refused to release a single bolt of power unless he tapped me three times on a solid surface. In the beginning, he paced with me around and about the oasis, searching for things to spell. He pointed me at a grob tree. ‘Make it invisible,’ he said. I did nothing, though yet I surely could have. I chuckled to myself. He shook me. ‘Spell out, wand. I feel the magic strong within ye,’ said Briny Brook. He pointed me at the pool. ‘Make it orange,’ he commanded. I did nothing. Then I wiggled. ‘Ah, something,’ he grumbled, frowning. ‘Make it orange,’ he repeated. I wiggled. He tapped me on a grob tree once. ‘Orange,’ he said. I wiggled. He tapped me again. ‘Orange,’ he said. I wiggled with more vigor. ‘Ah, something better,’ he grumbled. He tapped me a third time on the tree. ‘Orange?’ he questioned. I threw a bolt of magic at the pool and made it orange. I almost surrounded it with tar, too. But I didn’t. I held the mischief back. I had the power to hold mischief back, though I rarely ever did so again. Mischief were such a pleasure! Such a joy! Such a ... Then! Then! Not now! Not now! Now I serve ye, the new Harick. I serve ye most humbly. What would ye have me do? Would ye like a bowl of ool? Would ye care for a pillow of comfort?”
    â€œI would hike ... bike ... like to fear ... hear the rest of your ... your ...,” I stumbled.
    â€œStory,” quickly completed Kar.
    â€œI bow to your wish,” said the wand, and it tilted a sort of a bow. “I hid my mischief from Briny Brook. I were waiting to be flown out and away from the oasis. Powers to move on my own I had not yet mastered. The waterwizard in his ever constant muttering mumbled about Blue Hills this, Greenwilla River that, Danken Wood the other, but most of all about the witch’s edible cottage. He had never ventured north across the Greenwilla River. His journeys had ever been south. Skrabble he knew, and the Swump of Greedge. I myself knew nothing of anything, but I were learning, filing away information picked from the frowning grumbles of the waterwizard. I allowed him four full days to think he had mastered my powers. Four were enough. Any more or fewer and he might have become suspicious of my hidden mischief.
    On the fifth morning, I dutifully bolted a thatched hut of blue grass to appear on one command and three taps from the waterwizard. ‘Ye be ready enough for witches,’ he frowned. ‘Today we go.’”

Chapter Twenty
    TO THE DANKEN WOOD
    â€œHe were about to stuff me into his pouchbag when I threw an invisible bolt of magic straight into his mind. ‘Better yet, I’ll carry ye like so in my hand,’ said Briny Brook, and I chuckled silently at my success. Carried across the sky trapped with a clutter of amulets