A Touch of Magic
A TOUCH OF MAGIC
by Gregory L. Mahan
Copyright 2011 Gregory L. Mahan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
This book is dedicated to my wife, Lucinda. It would never have been completed without her overwhelming support.
Randall checked himself over with a critical eye. He sighed and wished again that his Pa could afford a mirror, so that he could see himself better. He knew he was clean, though, because he hadn’t done any heavy lifting since he helped move hay last week, and he’d taken a bath immediately after. The stain on his breeches was hardly noticeable, and the jerkin he was wearing had only been mended once.
He had been so preoccupied about his appearance lately that his brothers had begun teasing him at every opportunity. Eric, the eldest, called him “Lord Priss”, an obvious play off of the name of King Priess, who was also known to be a vain man. Randall smiled a little when he thought about the whipping Eric had gotten when Pa had heard him making fun in the name of Tallia’s sovereign lord. Eric liked to think of himself as too old for a whipping, but his taunting was dangerously close to sedition, and John Miller was a loyal man. Joshua still got away with calling Randall “Your Hiney-ness,” though. He was only eight, after all.
Randall’s younger brother would be easier to tolerate if Pa ever got around to adding that other bedroom, like he promised to do every year. As it was, all three Miller boys had to squeeze into one shared room. During the coldest parts of the year, the boys spent much of their leisure time together in this room. Tensions often ran high as the winter wore on, and arguments were commonplace. Outright fistfights weren’t that rare either, though that kind of behavior often earned a hiding from Pa.
“Randall! Come get your breakfast! Hurry up or it’ll get cold!”
His mother’s voice carried from the kitchen and broke Randall from his thoughts. “Coming Momma!” he called, as he gave himself one last look before hurrying to the kitchen.
The Miller kitchen had a small wooden table in one corner that served as the breakfast nook. The room was sparsely furnished with an oven and stovetop, and a rack of pots and pans hanging above it. Joshua was already at the table and tearing into a steaming plate of corn cakes. The older men folk were probably already at the mill, hard at work grinding wheat. The Millers weren’t rich; nobody in Geldorn was. It was only a medium-sized hamlet, and there wasn’t much coin to go around. What couldn’t be bought could be bartered for, and just about everyone needed flour. But all told, the Millers had a fairly comfortable life.
“Smells good, Momma,” Randall said as he poured himself a glass of fresh milk.
Joshua glanced at their mother, making sure she was busy at the stove, and then stood to give Randall a silent bow, making an elaborate show of wagging his tail end after he was bent over. His mother’s voice lashed out like a whip crack.
“If you don’t sit down this instant, Joshua Miller, I’ll be feeding your share to the hogs!”
Joshua jumped up with an “Eep!”, and flung himself wide-eyed back into his chair. “Sorry Momma,” he mumbled.
Randall chuckled to himself; Joshua hadn’t yet learned that Momma had eyes in the back of her head. Randall sat and picked at his corn cakes for a few minutes until his mother had finished serving up Joshua’s share.
“Go on. Eat your breakfast and quit actin’ like a sheep on the way to slaughter,” she ordered.
“But Momma,” Randall started.
“Don’t sass me,” she interrupted. “There ain’t no one going to be choosing any weak or sickly boys at the fair, I tell you true. Now eat on up.”
Randall managed to tuck away most of his breakfast, though it felt like a lump in his belly. He didn’t need to be reminded that today was the start of the job fair. He wasn’t old enough for the last fair, being only twelve. But now he was fourteen, with some muscles starting to grow on his frame, and he was ready to try his luck. He’d been counting the days until the fair for months now, and it was mostly the reason behind his newfound worry about his looks. He wanted to put on his very best impression, and he was fairly sure that looking like a backward farm boy with dirt on his face wasn’t what he should be aiming for. He was nervous about his chances, because there were always lots of boys at the fair. There were always far more boys than jobs, so it meant that many boys went home disappointed on the last day of the fair. He wanted to do his best to make sure that he wasn’t one of them.
The job fair was a tradition that started long before Pa was born. Geldorn, though it wasn’t truly a town or city, was the largest settlement within miles. So every couple of years, craftsmen and boys alike from all of the smaller villages would gather at Geldorn for the job fair, trying to match up eager boys with folks who could use a spare hand or two. It was a good way for farming boys to learn a little about a trade, and bring home some spare money to the family. And if a boy was lucky enough to be picked for apprenticeship, why then his fortune was made! After three or four years mastering his craft, a boy (though by then he’d be a man, Randall realized) would set up his own shop, or put on the journeyman’s cloak and strike out to earn his fortune! It was bound to be a much more exciting life than growing corn, milling wheat and butchering pigs, that’s for sure!
Eric, being the oldest, would eventually inherit most of Pa’s land and family business. It was up to Randall—and Josh, when he got older—to try and make something of themselves if they wanted more than a second-hand life. The thought of being Eric’s assistant at the mill until he was old and grey made Randall shudder to himself in horror.
After breakfast, Momma, Randall and Josh hitched up the horses to the family cart, and loaded a few sacks of flour that were destined for delivery. Luckily, there weren’t too many, so Randall didn’t sweat that much. His mother merely sighed resignedly when he made a big show of dusting all the flour off of his jerkin before they started on the hour-long trip to market. Randall lost himself in thoughts of what it might be like to be a trapper, or perhaps a big sweaty blacksmith with huge muscles. Or maybe he’d even be picked to be a squire to a captain in the local militia. Then he’d spend his days learning about sword-play and how to kill the bog-wights that occasionally threatened the villages around the Black Eel Swamp! One day, he might even be sent to far off lands to bring riches back to Tallia for the king!
He was brought crashing back to earth by his mother’s slap to the back of his head.
“Pay attention, Randall! We’re almost at the market,” she said. “I swear, you daydream more than any child worth his salt oughta. Now help me keep an eye out for Frank’s daughter, so I can drop off their flour. Then you can run off and see about gettin’ yourself hired on somewhere.”
“Yes Momma,” Randall said.
Frank was the local innkeeper. Geldorn only needed one, and the inn barely did enough business during the spring to keep their family in foodstuffs for the winter. Frank’s daughter, Melinda, was a couple of years older than Randall, and already starting to blossom into a lovely young lady. Lately, when Randall looked at her, he found himself feeling shy and at a loss for words. On the other hand, she always seemed to have something to say to him—and none of it was particularly nice.
The inn was quite a distance from the Miller household, so Randall and Melinda never had much of an opportunity to really get to know each other, but he found her on his mind more than usual these days. Unfortunately, she seemed to have decided that he was some kind of particularly loathsome insect. It seemed like the more he tried to impress her and win her respect, the less she seemed to think of him. But all of that might change if he could get a well-respected job at the fair!
The market was especially crowded today, because of the fair, but it didn’t take Randall long to spot her in the crowd. He would have recognized her golden curls even if the square had been twice as busy.
“There she is Momma! Over there, looking at that scarf!” he cried.
“Well then,” his mother said, “you go on over there and fetch her over.”
The job fair always brought peddlers from all over the region, selling trinkets and gewgaws. Melinda was trying on a brilliant blue scarf and admiring herself in the shop’s small mirror. The scarf went especially well with her straw-blonde hair and light blue dress.
She gets prettier every time I see her
, he thought to himself.
“Hi, Melinda! That’s a pretty scarf,” he said after she had finished her business.
“Oh, it’s you,” she sniffed disdainfully, not even bothering to look up from the mirror. “Was there something I could help you with, Randall Miller, or do you just enjoy blocking my sunlight?”
Randall’s mouth turned into a frown. Melinda was in quite a mood today!
“Momma’s got some flour for you.” he mumbled, pointing back to their cart. Then he puffed up slightly. “And the job fair is today!”
Melinda turned from the mirror and looked him over him a critical eye. Randall felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “You think you’re ready for the job fair? You don’t think you’re a little
scrawny
? A little
young
?”
Randall cast his eyes downward. “I’m fourteen and a half,” he protested, before brightening again. “I’m going to join the militia. I’ll be a famous captain one day! I’ll fight bog-wights and bandits and…”
“Eww! The militia?” Melinda asked incredulously. She made it sound as if mucking stables would have been a better choice. “All they do is drink all day, and try to take liberties when Daddy’s not looking. I might have expected as much from a Miller boy!”
Randall looked down at his feet and shuffled nervously under her withering criticism. “Momma’s got your flour,” was all he could think of to say.
Melinda fished in her purse for a couple of coins and held them out with her forefinger and thumb. As Randall reached for the coins, she sniffed imperiously and opened her fingers, dropping them to the earth, making Randall scramble to recover them.
“Deliver them to Daddy’s place. You don’t expect
me
to haul them all the way across the market do you?”
With that, she turned on her heel and flounced toward another shop. His heart sinking, Randall turned and plodded back toward the cart dejectedly.
He’d show her! He
would
be a captain some day! And he would travel the world and become rich and famous. And when he came back, he’d visit her father’s inn, and make her wait on him while he told tales of his travels. And maybe when her father wasn’t looking, he’d try to take liberties too, whatever that meant. It would serve her right.
After making the delivery at Frank’s Inn, Randall’s mother kissed him on the cheek and sent him on his way. He trekked back toward the small city of tents and awnings that had sprung up for the job fair, visions of fame and adventure still dancing in his mind.
“Randall! I said wait up!” a voice called from behind him.
Randall turned to see Bobby hurrying up to join him. Bobby was a farmer’s son, around Randall’s age, but already well-muscled. He was a good two inches taller than Randall, too, and always seemed to be eating. True to form, he had a big hunk of bread in one hand and a wedge of cheese in the other. He lived up the road from Randall, and the two boys were always getting into trouble together. Randall eyed the cheese wedge and wondered for the hundredth time how his friend kept from getting as fat as Melinda’s mother.
“I swear, Randall! You’ve always got your head in the clouds! I’ve been chasing after you for at least a mile!” Bobby said, a little breathlessly, when he reached his friend.
“Sorry, Bobby, I was distracted. I just ran into Melinda.” Randall began.
“Yeah, she ‘distracts’ me too,” Bobby said, and nudged Randall in the ribs.
Randall blushed a deep red. “That’s not what I mean! I mean, why does she have to be so mean?”
Bobby snorted. “She’s just stuck-up is all, on account of she knows she’s pretty and all. Pa says that it’s the gods’ way of making sure she gets a husband before she goes all fat like her momma,” he said, holding a back a laugh.
“No way!” Randall said. “I mean, look at her. She’s so… so… pretty! I can’t ever picture her lookin’ all bloated up like her momma.”
“Well, Pa says it’s true, and I believe him,” Bobby retorted, as if that settled the matter.
“Well, I don’t,” Randall countered stubbornly. “Come on, let’s go. I want to see the soldiers!”
Bobby and Randall hurried to where the local militia had cordoned off a large area near the market center. Within the area they had driven some wooden poles into the ground and outfitted each one with straw-stuffed sacks and a helmet. There were already a couple of boys taking turns whacking at the make-shift practice dummies with large wooden swords. Nearby, a couple of militiamen were practicing sword techniques, and a small crowd had gathered to watch. The men moved with quick and deadly precision and Randall found himself captivated.
The men came together, and after a flurry of blows, one ended up on the ground, disarmed and a sword at his throat. On the next pass, one attacker slapped his foe’s sword to the side, with a powerful swipe, causing the man to spin away. Almost too quick to see, his opponent took advantage of the situation, slapping his partner in the calf with his sword, a blow which would certainly have been crippling had they been using naked steel. The quick passes and high energy got Randall’s blood pumping, and itching for action.
“C’mon! Let’s go swing those swords!” he said, as he dragged Bobby away to the practice dummies. The practice dummies were always one of the most popular attractions at the fair, and there was already a long line of boys, even this early in the morning. Randall and Bobby joined them, eagerly anticipating their own turn with the weapons. As they waited, Randall whispered behind his hand into Bobby’s ear. “Look at that boy. He’s holding that sword all wrong. No wonder he can’t hit nothin’!”