The Retired Wizard

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Bhurin

Initiate

Posts: 9

(12/29/01 1:35:36 am)

Reply The Retired Wizard

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This is a short story I wrote some time ago. Just thought I would contribute to the local entertainment.

 

The Retired Wizard

 

It was dreadfully humid under the clouded sky that day. It had been raining all month throughout the province, and the air began to reek of the sweet and pungent smell of rotting plants. Though it had let up for a bit, the sound of thunder periodically came from the distance. By now the sounds were not so much menacing as they were depressing, as the gloomy blanket of somber clouds that covered the valley gave a felling that left little up to fear. The sun was missed by many, and the rain relentlessly and selfishly hid it away from them.

The road McCleud now traveled was ragged and very muddy. It took his constant concentration to watch for dry foot holes and puddles of silty mud. His long robe was no help either, as it was a matter of youthful pride for himself to keep it clean. Though he knew it would have been easier to travel enroute the forest, the recent local warnings concerning Hobgoblin raids deterred him from doing so. It was risky enough to travel alone, so he made his way as quickly and cleanly as possible.

McCleud had been on the road since he completed his training at the Wizards Institution of Technical Theory, otherwise known as WITT, nine months ago. He had graduated with honors in the field of Conjuration, earning him his Silver Star, and the right to seek apprenticeship. Like all other Wizards in training, McCleud had grand dreams of seeking out the great Conjurers of Old and requesting of them the honor of learning from them. However, unlike the other graduates, who had eventually quested their teachings no further from the school then the faculty, McCleud had ventured forth to fulfill his dream. Though it was costing him dearly in the form of wasted time and money, McCleud was determined to seek the greatest Wizard in known legend. Ravenoth the Profound.

"By now, Benson has no doubt earned his second star," McCleud mumbled to himself as a lazy drop of water descended from a high branch onto his finely combed, black hair, "He's probably already written his thesis on the Semantics of the Inner Circle."

Though the thought of his rival spending all minutes of the day making progress while he himself trudged through the mud bothered McCleud, he knew it would be worth every mile; every indignity; when he found the great Ravenoth and received his teachings. In one month, McCleud estimated, he could get more learning done then Benson could in a year. This greatly appealed to McCleud, so he continued steadily forward.

As he rounded a corner decorated with overhanging branches and weeds, McCleud came upon a miserable but greatly appreciated sight. Built on the side of the road, where the thick brush had decided to let up a bit, was a run down but charming tavern. It had one floor, with a porch on the outside covered in plant life coming up through the planks. Windows boarded up in the odd place, and a tilted canopy of dried wood that allowed the rain to slid off. The stairs were actually large rocks smoothed at the top from constant use, and assorted wooden drums of unfathomable use lined the outside walls. A crooked sign, no doubt so for that extra charm, hung over the swinging door, salon-styled entrance, that read, "The Olde Wagon."

McCleud, smiling and nodding to himself, said only, "Yes, very charming." Then he gripped his staff happily and entered the establishment.

Pushing the doors open as inconspicuously as he possible could, McCleud entered the tavern with relief in heart but caution in mind. Wizards were not always welcomed in some territories, and as McCleud had no idea where he was, he decided it probably be best to play it safe. Immediately he scanned the bar to ascertain who was all currently populating the small but surprisingly spacy bar.

The bar was a classic one, like all the others McCleud had encountered on his journeys thus far. It had a sit-at bar with rickety stools; unmatching assorted tables and chairs filling the room; and a dark corner for the less "desirable" clientele. Currently there were eight people occupying the tavern. A bartender with three men sitting in front of him; a woman and two gentlemen at one table, laughing and talking very loudly; and an old man surrounded by books and bags, nursing a drink.

McCleud spotted the old man, and suddenly became excited. There were rumors spreading throughout the province that Ravenoth had come to settle somewhere in the valley, but McCleud had been slightly skepptical. But, with the sight of this white bearded gentleman dressed in tattered but obviously once-expensive robes, McCleud was jubilant.

"Maybe; it could be Ravenoth." McCleud thought to himself, as he stepped up to the bar.

"So Jacob crashed his wagon on this here exact spot. And, as you know, not being the type to waste a full stock of ale because you can't ship it, Jacob built a couple of cloth walls and wooden tables around his wagon, and became the first bartender 'round these parts." The bartender, a stocky, unshaven man, was relaying the story while he wiped an already clean cup to a fine luster. His words were being drunk as keenly and quickly as his ale was by the rather small but captivated audience. "The place has obviously gotten built up over the years, but that's where it got its name."

As the customers seated at the bar laughed and toasted to the bartender's story, McCleud took his chance to talk to the bartender.

"Excuse me, my good man, might I ask thee a question?" McCleud asked, as he tried to straighten himself to full height.

The bartender, spotting McCleud as if he had suddenly appeared in front of him, answered in a casual voice, "You just did."

McCleud, sensing that a hazing might result from his next reply, responded carefully, "I guess I did. Might I ask another? After this one of course."

The bartender, smiling to himself, obviously found McCleud far too easy of game, so he answered calmly, "Go 'head."

"Thank you." McCleud said, sitting down on one of the stools, "I was wondering if you happened to know if that gentleman over there was a practitioner of the Magical arts."

"Well..." The bartender stalled, seemingly re-weighing McCleud's credibility, "I think the old timer might be a Wizard. That don't happen to be one of the questions I normally ask."

"Quite," McCleud said, leaning in toward the bartender. Signalling the bartender to do the same, McCleud asked, "Would you happen to know his name?"

"Listen bub," The bartender said with a slight serious tone to his voice, "now no offence or nothing, but people in these parts normally keep to themselves. We don't poking into other people's business. I don't bother my customers, so I can't answer your question. If ya want ta know the man's name, give him the dignity of asking him yer'self."

McCleud, nodding appreciatively, answered, "I understand. Thank you for your help."

As the bartender got back to his other customers, McCleud rose to his feet, found his courage, and began to walk over to the old man seated at the far table. A sudden round of laughter from the woman across the bar almost jolted McCleud, but he quickly re-composed himself and approached the man. He hesitated only another moment, for months of searching urged him on and any fears he had were disregarded.

As he drew close, the old man looked up and said in a rusty old voice, "Eh? Who are ye? What da ya want?"

"Good day, sir. Please excuse my interrupting you," McCleud said, trying to appear formal. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Reminton McCleud, Initiate of the Northern Star, tenth year..."

Before McCleud could continue, the old man smiled, his wrinkles suddenly adding years of contentment to his face. He laughed a slight but blissful chuckle, and he said, "Ahh, a WITT man, eh? What brings you to these parts?

"Sir, I've been scouring the Free Lands for months, trying to hunt down a Great Wizard of power. I wish to seek an apprenticeship..."

Suddenly, the old man's face lost its smile, and he interrupted again, "So they're still doing that, eh? Let me guess. You've spent your young life surrounded by dusty books and even dustier teachers, right?"

"Well ah..." McCleud said, caught off guard by the old man's serious tone, "I suppose I..."

"And I bet all your friends swore they would track down the great casters and become apprentices the likes of which have never been seen before," The old man said, sipping from his mug as he removed a long pipe from his jacket.

"Well..." McCleud tried again.

"Well, let me give you a spot of wisdom, Mr. McCleud." The man said, pointing a long, gnarled finger as he began. "Those WITT crones have been sticking to their customs for generations, and look where it's gotten them. Sure, they're rich and successful, but bounded down my young Wizard. Bounded to the ideal, and not to the magic."

The bar became quiet as the old man paused to smoke his pipe. When he began again, his voice became loud and surprisingly zealous, "In the old days, when a Wizard completed his schooling, it was when he felt he was done or when he was needed. Many the young Wizard was plucked from school by a band of heros on some God forsaken journey of righteousness. I myself knew an Illusionist whose house was annihilated by a passing Dragon, who wanted to deter its pursuers by torching everything in its path. The so called heroes saved him, but that young Illusionist was given a choice: Join them and aid them with his powers; or return to his family a failure. Some heros! They have courage, sure, but their people skills lack incredibly!"

McCleud, who was then signalled to sit by the old man, did so quickly without so much as a word. Once he was seated, the man continued.

"In the old days, a Wizard with two spells was considered proficient. Back in those days, we had to write ALL our own spells. Few as that is, they were ours, and we were respected for them. Nowadays, you young'ins learn dozens of spells during your stay at WITT-less, only to go on to learn more spells. You spend your best years behind texts, writing in ink that stains your hands and clothes. What's the point of learning if it only leads to more learning! The chivalry has gone out of the trade, my friend. My advice to you: take your knowledge and become a learned man among the commoners. You'll make more money, more friends, and have far more ‘instances’ with the fairer sex then you ever would as a tired, dried out, fickle man with an addiction to the pipe, and a head full of the impossible.”

As the old man finished his drink, McCleud was left speechless. With the words still echoing in the bar McCleud's head, the old man placed a silver piece on the table and said, "Enjoy life, my young friend. Do not spend all of it trying to become like me..." Then, donning a large, floppy hat, the old man stood up, tipped his hat, and walked out of the bar.

The silence lasted for a short time, broken at last by the sound of rain pattering on the roof. McCleud, still stunned by the ordeal, sunk his head and remained silent for some time. The hum of talking continued a moment later, the words no longer holding a presence in the bar. Forgotten so quickly.

"Are you okay?"

McCleud, surprised by the voice, looked up to find the woman kneeling next to him, a friendly but concerned look on her face. She had long, brunette hair and was quite beautiful.

Still shocked, it took a moment for McCleud to answer. But, shaking his head, he regained his thoughts and answered, "Oh, yes I'll be fine. Just a little shook up I guess."

Sitting down next to him, the woman smiled and asked, "Kinda laid the law down, didn't he?"

"Yes, I guess you can say that," McCleud smiled, looking at the door as if expecting to see the man there again.

"Was he a friend of yours?" She asked, leaning her head to interrupt his gaze.

McCleud, again pausing before answering, responded, "No. No he wasn't. I just wanted to... Well, I don't know. I guess I just set my dreams above reality."

Nodding slightly, she placed her hand on his shoulder and said, "A good place for them."

"Not when they crash down and reality reminds you they are only dreams," McCleud said, turning back to look at the woman.

The woman, still smiling, blinked slowly and asked, "Is there anyway I can help?"

McCleud, smiling more out of courtesy then actual joy, answered, "I don't think so."

"Well, let me try. Stop by my house up the road about a mile. I'll make some tea and we'll discuss it."

McCleud, looking into her friendly eyes, finally nodded and said, "Okay. Thank you."

"No problem," She said, rising to her feet and making her way back to her table. After she had gathered her things, she put on a small jacket and said good-bye to her friends. Making her way to the door, she turned back and said, "I’ll see you there."

"See you," McCleud said, waving slightly as he watched her leave. As she opened the door, he sat back in his seat and waved the bartender for a drink. He could hear that the rain had stopped, just as suddenly as it had come, and that light was pooling into the bar. The sun was out, for the moment at least. The bartender arrived with McCleud's drink, and McCleud handed him a silver piece of his own and thank him. Once he had it in hand, McCleud raised the mug into the air and said, "Well, here's to the dream. May it rest in its retirement."

But, as McCleud went to sip it, the woman poked her head back into the bar and said, "Oh, and by the way McCleud? It's pronounced: Ray-ven noth. Not Raa-ven noth."

 

The End