Bumblestook: Book 1, The Accidental Wizard (19 page)

He called himself Malador the
Magnificent
, but was better known amongst his kind as the
Malevolent
, an appellation that aptly described his temperament. He resembled a
Cubist painting come to life; more an assemblage of angles, lines and planes, than a flesh and blood form. Tall and thin, yet broad-shouldered, his long, blood-red gown hung on his torso as if it were still on the hanger. The garment’s high-buttoned collar stopped just short of his jawline; the fabric curling back upon itself to reveal a black, velvet lining. Above this, his pale-white face seemed to float, like a moon in a dark, night sky. Translucent, albino skin (through which could be seen a tracery of thin, blue veins) was stretched taut over a long, narrow brow, thin, pinched nose, high, sharp cheekbones and angular jaw line. Shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and beneath his eyes, were the dull, purple-grey of a faded bruise. Red pupils glittered, like wet rubies deep-set in sunken eye sockets. Sparse, white hair clung to his skull and descended into the collar at the back of his neck. He sat upright, on a throne-like chair of unadorned, unpolished granite high atop a jet-black dais. The chair was in a cavern at the end of a long, dark hall; poorly lit by wall sconces that sputtered fitfully, in a futile attempt to dispel the night. Malador himself was bathed in a pale, blue, phosphorous light; seemingly without source. On closer inspection, it could be seen to emanate from the Wizard’s skin, endowing him with a supernatural aura. The deep gloom, into which the rest of the room was plunged, had the effect of placing him against the backdrop of a black void; creating the appearance of a spectral figure, floating in midair.

Malador waited, having sent out a silent call to his servant less than an hour ago. To all outward appearances he waited patiently; luminously-pale face without a trace of emotion, long, ghost-white hands completely at rest on the arms of the chair, without even a flutter of skeletal fingers.
Inside
his thoughts writhed and seethed, like a nest of venomous vipers in search of something to strike.

The shadow creature, entering at the far end of the long, dark hallway, was well aware of its master’s tendency to lash out without warning. Nevertheless, it had no choice but to answer the call; hoping the information it had gathered would buy it safe passage. It pressed up against the wall, staying low to the floor; slinking along like a dog on its belly. As it neared the black dais, it stretched out; slithering snake-like into the Master’s presence.

Malador looked down his long, thin, nose at his servant; subjecting it to a cold, detached stare. Then, from the right hand (lying limpid on the arm of the chair) a single, white finger arose slowly, as if on its own volition. The tip of the finger began to glow with a cold blue light.

Every fiber of the shadow creature’s being screamed at it to
flee!
but its master’s will was stronger than its sense of self preservation. Thus, it stayed, as though pinned to the floor, while tremors ran up and down its length.

“You have something for me.” It was a statement, not a question, delivered in a flat emotionless voice; nevertheless managing to convey the malevolence that seethed just below Malador’s surface.

“Yes, Master,” the groveling creature replied in a breathy sigh. “The bearded one meets with friends in a place of many large rocks.”

“Continue.”

“The Water Spirit was there also.” The creature doled out information one piece at a time, like precious coins of gold, unaware that this habit served only to fan the flames of the Master’s ire.

“Go on.”

“They joined powers to speak with a rock.”

For the first time, Malador’s face displayed a flicker of emotion, as a corner of his thin-lipped mouth twitched in surprise. “A rock.”

“Yes. A very large rock.”

“And…”

“The rock did not speak.”

“Curious.”

“There’s more,” the shadow creature quickly added, sensing its master’s dissatisfaction. “The bearded one spoke a word and the earth began to shake. Small rocks flew through the air and struck them all.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, Master. Then, the Water Spirit disappeared into a crack in the rock.”

“What?” Malador’s eyes narrowed. He slowly lowered his head and steepled his skeletal fingers. A few tense moments passed, as he engaged in deliciously malicious thoughts. Then, he slowly lifted his head, ruby eyes glittering in his fearsome visage.

“So-o-o-o, it appears that wretched Osheanna has finally been neutralized.”

The shadow creature cringed, as the Wizard fixed it with an intense stare and pointed a glowing finger directly at it. A thin laser-like beam of cold, blue light lanced out from the fingertip; striking the floor within inches of the shadowy form. The creature shook violently, fighting the desire to take flight, as the Master (with a nearly imperceptible motion of his finger) caused the light to move in closer.

“The
word
, slave—what word did Bartholeumous speak?”

“
Bumblestook
, Master. The word was
Bumblestook
.”

Far away, in the center of Bartholeumous’ multi-dimensional library, the crystal on the old, oak table began to glow, with a frosty-white light. Beside it, the laptop computer hummed and buzzed, then emitted an electronic chirp.

“You’ve got a report!” it announced cheerfully to the room at large. Unfortunately, nobody was there to hear it.

Bartholeumous and the seven other members of the Human Identification, Protection and Education Committee (otherwise known as HIPE) stood in a place which had absolutely no boundaries. Pale grey sky stretched forever into nothingness, while foggy mist obscured the ground. They stood in a single line, calmly facing outward. All about them disembodied voices conferred in whispers, as invisible hosts circled the group.

The tinkling of wind chimes sounded, crystalline-clear in the open air, and the voices fell silent. Off in the distance, on what might have been the horizon, a small dark smudge appeared. As it neared the group, it grew in size and definition, until it could be seen that it was actually three separate figures.

In the middle was an incredibly ancient Wizard, the highest of the High Mages, whose long, luxurious, snowy-white beard hung down almost to the ground. Small in stature to begin with, now shrunken and bent with age, he leaned heavily upon a long wooden staff. Intricately carved vines twisted and curled their way to the top of the staff, to embrace a large, glowing crystal of smoky quartz.

The ancient mage wore a hooded cloak of dark-brown velvet, over a plain robe of coarse, un-dyed wool. A network of fine lines, crisscrossing his forehead and cheeks, gave his ivory-colored skin the look of ancient, wrinkled parchment. Numerous laugh lines and twinkling, crystal-blue eyes belied the otherwise careworn appearance of the old man’s face. They hinted at the quirky sense of humor that lay behind his chosen name; Imperious the
Impossible
(affectionately tagged “Impy” by his fellow Wizards).

To his left, walked a tall, muscular being, a Wroaran, the chosen representative of the Amorphae; beings that shared characteristics of both people and animals, able to change from one to the other in but a few blinks of an eye. The Bungaree and the Gr-r-rog, among many others, belonged to this group.

The Wroaran walked upright, with a definite spring to his step; his powerful leg muscles quivering with the effort to reduce his pace to that of the of the elderly Wizard. He was covered in golden fur from head to toe, with the exception of his bronze-skinned face. The palms of his hands and bare soles of his feet were protected with thick, dark pads and sported un-retractable, curved, amber talons. From a pronounced widow’s peak sprouted a glorious, golden mane; flowing, luxuriously thick, over his broad shoulders, back and chest. Well-muscled shoulders and forearms burst through a sleeveless, soft-suede tunic with an open v-neck, cut deep to accommodate the overflow of chest hair. The tunic was cinched at the waist by a wide, leather belt with a large, silver buckle. Black, wool breeches ended at his bulging calves. A long, prehensile tail poked out of a hole in the back of his pants; curving up to dangle its tufted tip over his head. A proud, prominent nose, nostrils flaring like twin tunnels, dominated the large, rectangular face. Great, dark, golden eyes with huge, black irises, stared out from beneath furry, caterpillar-like, blonde eyebrows and long, curly, blonde lashes. His name was Barra-Hoon and he was truly the King of Beasts.

On Impy’s left walked a petite woman. She was only five foot two (barely taller than the diminutive mage) but her bearing, as much as her badges, marked her as a Hero of the People. Every Hero is born with a personal Quest; the focus of their lives until fulfilled. When they are but a few days old, Heroes (and their Quests) are identified, by qualified Wizards in official Naming Ceremonies. Each Hero is gifted with one special power and trained in the Heroic skills needed to succeed in their Quests.

The woman, walking at the Wizard’s side, was a Hero of Great Renown, Rowena of Dragonfire Quest. Her dark, brunette hair (parted simply in the middle) hung thick and wavy to her waist. Her face was small, heart-shaped and sharp-chinned; her long nose high-bridged and thin. Her eyebrows began as a light, feathery brush above her nose; growing in dark and thick as they arched above her eyes. Below heavy lids, fringed with black lashes, brown eyes, dark as raisins, subjected the world to steady appraisal; while her thin, berry-red lips seemed disinclined to smile. She wore a periwinkle, velvet tunic over midnight-blue wool knickers, tucked into a pair of russet-brown, knee length, lace-up moccasins. A purple sash, festooned with badges, proclaimed her courage and skill in fulfilling her Quest.

Imperious the Impossible, Barra-Hoon King of Beasts, and Rowena of Dragonfire Quest, comprised the Triumvirate; the sole rulers of the diverse group of beings which called themselves, simply,
The People
. Each of the Triumvirate was chosen by the members of their particular group (Wizards, Amorphae or Heroes) on the basis of outstanding contribution to the survival and success of The People. Thus, only those who had truly proven themselves worthy, were considered capable of ruling. As the three imposing figures waded through the misty groundcover, Imperious stepped slightly forward, before coming to a halt in front of Bartholeumous. The High Mage lifted his right hand (index finger upright, the other fingers loosely curled) in the traditional Wizard’s greeting; looking kindly at his old friend and colleague.

“Greetings, Bartholeumous.”

Bartholeumous returned the gesture and bowed his head in respect. “Greetings, High Mage. I wish that the circumstances were more favorable.”

“Indeed,” Imperious sighed. “If only wishes were horses—
actually
, some of them
are
! But they’re quite wild, you know. Difficult to catch and nearly impossible to ride!”

Down at the end of the line, Kali giggled. Bartholeumous chuckled into his beard; Impy truly was impossible! Faced with the disastrous loss of one of their people’s most treasured Guardian Spirits, he yet found a way to lighten the heavy hearts of the bearers of such grim tidings. Now, the High Mage reached out with a gnarled hand (which shook ever-so-slightly with age) and clasped Bartholeumous’ shoulder.

“Come, my friend. Let us form the All Seeing Circle. Perhaps the sharp eyes of Barra-Hoon and Rowena will spot something to give us hope for Osheanna’s recovery.”

The Triumvirate joined with Bartholeumous and the members of his committee, in a large circle, facing inwards. Rowena and Barra-Hoon steadied the High Mage; holding onto his elbows, as the old man grasped his staff by its end and stretched it out into the center of the circle. The large, smoky quartz crystal glowed, as he stirred the mist with a circular motion. The foggy groundcover swirled and dispersed, revealing a dark hole studded with twinkling lights. The gathering stood, looking down nonplussed, as the dark night sky opened up beneath them.

“Focus now, on where you have been and what you have seen. Let the sky below become your screen. Project all thoughts to the fore, that we may see what has gone before,” Impy intoned as he lifted the staff up and out of the center.

The sky beneath their feet rippled like a reflection in a pond. Abruptly, a scene flashed into existence and the committee members looked down upon their earlier selves; combining powers in an effort to reach the Earthbound. The scene flickered briefly, as the eight Wizards experienced intense feelings of regret; desiring to reach out to their past selves and warn them of the disastrous consequences.

“Focus and Project. Focus and Project,” the ancient Wizard reminded them.

With his guidance, the picture stabilized. Everyone watched silently as the incident unfolded; from the initial failure to contact the Earthbound, to the last frantic moments, when rocks fell from the sky and the earth rolled. As Osheanna’s disappearance replayed (and more than one of the Wizards experienced despair) the picture wavered briefly once again. This time, they recovered quickly, without need of further reminders. Throughout, Barra-Hoon and Rowena scanned the scenes with the sharp, discerning eyes of seasoned scouts; alert to every movement, no matter how small or insignificant, ever-watchful for anything out-of-place.