The Young Magician

the loud, hissing breathing the old man was making, as if each breath was as full and slow and complete as he could possibly manage. The energy around the man grew small again, wrapping tightly around his body and its intensity was astounding, almost blinding, making the old man at the core of the light appear as some form of silhouette by contrast. But all that paled into insignificance compared to what came next. Samuel’s eyes bulged with disbelief and he could not hold back a gasp as several soft balls of light bloomed into existence above the old man’s head. They were not formed from the same substance as the amazing, scintillating aura that surrounded him. They were real, visible lights like those of a lantern that any man or dog could see and they illuminated the room with a mystical, blue-hued glow. They hovered near the old man like curious butterflies, shedding their light all around. This was just like the magic from stories that Samuel had always imagined and he bit on the end of his thumb just to be sure he was not still dreaming.

The old man next pushed his palms together tightly and then, drawing them slowly apart, revealed that his hands were full of the same soft blue light. His hands shook as if the drawing was some great effort and required all his strength. His face was illuminated by the light and Samuel could see the exertion in the old man’s expression. Then the old man relaxed and his hands clapped sharply together, as if pulled together by a sudden evacuating force. The glow between them vanished, the floating lights disappeared and all the candles winked out at once. A grey silhouette then stood up and slowly left the room. If not for the white-hot aura around him, Samuel would not have seen the old man leave at all.

Samuel scampered from the roof and leapt into his bed, jittery with excitement, but somehow he could not keep the overpowering tide of sleep from taking him into its depths. He could not tell if he was having dreams or nightmares, for the images in his head were both fascinating and terrible. He dreamt of magic and monsters, of storms and oceans, of things from the skies and the deep. All throughout his dreams, he could hear a voice calling for someone over and over again, but the words were just on the verge of his recognition-and incomprehensible. A resounding thought burned into his mind and kept coming back to him through wake and slumber. There is magic!

When the dreams had finally quelled and subsided, he slept soundly and deeply for the rest of the night, as if worked to exhaustion from a month’s labour.

The next day, all the men of the inn were again strolling through the gardens, as always dressed in their usual black. Whether it was black shirt and trousers, black tunic, black cape, black cloak or long black robes, they forever seemed to be draped in the same monotonous garb.

The three new arrivals and Mr Kelvin were the only ones noticeably absent from the gardens. There had never been so many people strolling around at one time and they each walked with brisk excitement.

Samuel decided to talk to Mr Geoffries and Mr Sloan, but upon detecting his approach, they ceased their conversation and smiled politely. They were perfectly pleasant to him and asked him how he was but, sensing he was unwanted, Samuel wandered off again. As soon as he was beyond earshot, they launched back into their energetic discussion.

It was the same with the other men, until Samuel gave up and pulled himself into the low bough of his favourite climbing tree to sulk. He sat there, back against the trunk with his legs along the branch, until he spied the frantic form of Kans, whizzing from the inn towards the stable.

Samuel dropped down lightly from the branch and sped after the annoying man.

‘Oh, there you are, boy,’ Kans gasped, as Samuel entered the stables behind him. ‘I have no time to hunt after you. Ready the Grand Master’s wagon at once. He will be leaving shortly. And hurry up about it, won’t you?’

Kans then scooted past Samuel back towards the inn, all a fluster.

Grand Master? Samuel thought as he brought the two horses to the wagon outside. They were perfectly helpful animals and Samuel had no trouble readying the vehicle in a short space of time. When he was done, he climbed atop of it, released the braking lever and shook the reins up and down. The horses lurched forwards, pulling the wagon across the grass to where he stopped them with a steady pull of the reins just before the main entrance. He reapplied the brake, tethered the reins and dropped down beside the wagon, stroking the nearest animal’s sun-warmed coat as he waited. It whinnied and stamped at the ground with a hoof in expectation of some exercise.

After a timely spell, as Samuel began to feel the heat of the sun himself, the doors opened and Kans came rushing out, followed by an ever-patient Mr Kelvin, still in discussion with the aged visitor and his two companions. The men of the inn noticed the old man’s imminent departure and began to gather from across the gardens.

‘Is everything ready? Double-checked?’ Kans asked and began looking over Samuel’s work before even waiting for an answer, shaking anything that appeared remotely loose.

‘Well, this is goodbye,’ Mr Kelvin said to his guests as they reached the wagon. The two younger men each carried a number of bags, which they began to pile in the back of the wagon; their clothes and luggage, by the looks of it.

‘It has been good to see you again, young Peter,’ came the old man’s smooth voice. There was not a croak or waver to be heard. His words came out like warm honey, slow and deep. With surprising spryness, he lifted one leg to the step and hopped up into the seat. ‘I hope to be back before winter so we can continue our game. Be sure not to disturb the pieces,’ he said with a cheeky grin and a wave of one finger.’

Mr Kelvin laughed. ‘I’ll try. Have a good journey, Janus.’

The two younger men, still well aged by any measure, had finished with the bags and come to sit on either side of the old man.

The one closest to Samuel gathered up the reins. ‘Farewell,’ he called.

The small assembly of men all gave their farewells as the wagon groaned and pulled away. As the vehicle passed, Samuel spied the old man’s eyes flashing towards him from beneath a set of grey, woolly eyebrows-just for an instant. His eyes seemed so deep and blue and clear and knowing, and they locked onto Samuel like an eagle spotting its darting prey, watching him intently. Then, the moment had passed and the old man was again gazing forward, being jostled in his seat as he went. The horses’ shoes clip-clopped upon the stone path and the wagon exited through the main gates, held open by a low-bowing Kans. How he had managed to get over there so fast, Samuel did not know.

Mr Kelvin sighed and turned back into the inn, as did most of the others. A few returned to the gardens, although the sense of excitement had at once diminished. Before entering through the door to the inn, Mr Kelvin stopped and turned.

‘Samuel,’ he called.

Samuel was startled from his daydreaming. ‘Yes, Mr Kelvin?’

‘Don’t forget your lesson tonight. I’ll see you shortly after dinner.’

‘Thank you, Mr Kelvin,’ Samuel replied happily.

‘And don’t forget to scrub out the floors,’ Mr Kelvin added, before turning into the inn and pulling the door closed behind him.

Samuel’s mouth dropped. He had thought that with all the commotion, Mr Kelvin had forgotten about Samuel’s least favourite chore. He dragged his feet back to the stable and into the rear-most stall. He sighed wearily and reached up to get the largest scrubbing brush and bucket that hung there.

Over the nights that followed, Samuel practised everything he could remember the old man doing. Many of the movements still seemed improper and half-forgotten, so Samuel tried sitting cross-legged and breathing hard. Every minute or so, he would open one eye to see if the lights were there yet, but they never were. Each night, Samuel would try harder to recall the exact movements the old man had done, as all the sitting and breathing quickly grew stale. After a few nights, he thought he could remember about thirteen steps that he was sure were the same. A few in the middle and at the end still evaded his memory, but he was sure they were somewhere at the back of his mind and he would soon be able to figure out what they were… roughly.

When in the markets next, he even bought several cheap wax candles and set them in his room to practise with, but no amount of gesturing or jumping up and down would light them without the added help of a tinderbox. He would often pretend to himself that he had lit the candles with some magic, jumping up and lighting them quickly, before sneaking back to his place with feigned amazement at what he had done. It