Meetingplace

                                                            

                              A typical New Year morning on the Coast. After a bright, promising sunrise, the earth surrendered its stored-up coolness to condense the water vapour which was invisible not five minutes ago. Now it's so misty that trees barely a hundred feet away are only hazy outlines like an old man's short term memory.

               He went outside to gaze at his trees. They were pearled with dew and dripping in a restful way. He smiled to see tiny fat birds hopping on the slender branches like outsized Christmas ornaments. The air wasn't exactly cold, not like what it was like up North. There, they would have killed for a mild January morning like this. But at least when it wasn't snowing in the higher latitudes, it was piercingly bright. The Coast was more like an impressionist sketch, all muted tones and softness. The North was photo-realism: all clearly demarcated planes, and sharp edges. Naked sun reflected off of snow will do that. Nobody ever suffered snow blindness on the Coast.

               Coastal sun was like your granny's hugs, gentle, soppy, undemanding, hidden in endless folds of old woman clothing. It was more hinted at than realized. Even the weather reports on the Coast were cursed with a sense of maybe-not-likely-but-maybe. Only a weatherman here can get away with the imprecision of a forecast suggesting that there was a 40 percent chance of rain, clouds, partial sun. Why not throw in a 5 percent chance of a tsunami to make it interesting?

               His wife was a Northern girl. She mourned the insipid winters here, moaned at the continual lowering skies, gray and dull. She was like a rainbow trout forced to live in a duck pond, muddy and opaque. She remembers mad Viking winters that killed and laughed in the killing. Blizzards that closed down the interstate, and plows working twenty-four-seven. She remembers jumping off the roof of her parents' barn with her brothers  into snow drifts five feet high.

               Here on the Coast, it could snow too but generally it would create just a momentarily frosted landscape subject to almost immediate melting and blending into a dirty slush, an Ovaltine smoothy.

               It had snowed just before Christmas which sent the children into a frenzy of  snowman-building and their parents into a less enthusiastic campaign of driveway-clearing. It didn't last, of course, because on the Coast there is an unwritten rule stating that all snow must be melted by Christmas Day.

               He passed by his little garden and smiled to see flower buds under the weather-beaten leaves of his hellebore looking as though they were pondering the risk of opening earlier this year. It must be difficult to be a plant here, he mused. You never know when the weather would toss an unexpected curve ball at you. He remembered a November several years ago where a sudden Arctic outflow had shocked some of his plants, killing half a hydrangea that wasn't planted far enough out of the icy wind. All of his careful pruning next spring could not hide its quadriplegia. He eventually had to dig it up and consign it to the compost heap.

               He looked past the cold drizzle into the sky past the power lines. There was a dim pearly brightness to the west which promised what? More rain? Torrents of rain? Buckets? Cats and dogs? He thought about a hike into the green hills. Sometimes when the clouds were low enough, you could climb right through them up into blue skies. It made him feel a little like a Norse god, enthroned in light while his poor huddled humanity struggled blindly in bleak darkness.

               The hill was ringed about with hiking trails courtesy of the local mountain bike club. So devoted to their obsession were they that they carved miles of switchbacks over bridges of split-cedar and jumps that chilled him to consider flying off. No wonder the most avid ones were armoured and helmeted like they were about to be shot out of a cannon.

               It was a truly crappy day for a hike but as he liked to brag to his long suffering friends, "If we don't go up when the weather's terrible we'd never hike here." His wife was stoically accustomed to his muddy wet boots tracking up the front hall and him appearing hair plastered flat to his skull and  as bedraggled as though he'd hiked through a waterfall. Getting dreadfully wet always made him feel like he'd accomplished something great for which he could reward himself with a steaming cup of tea elevated by a shot of Grand Marnier.

               He called to his cocker spaniel and plucked his car keys from their hook. For some reason, the dog would not venture out into the rain. He found himself dragging her by the leash if she judged it to be too wet for her ebony curls. But jingle the keys and she was in the car like a shot not wanting to miss the potential fun. Once they had driven to their parking space on the hill, she was as gung-ho for a walk as he was despite the deluge.

               She stole onto the passenger seat where she could fully enjoy the drive. He preferred her in the back where his wife had laid out on old blanket but the dog could not be dissuaded. "I should have called you 'Shotgun'," he said to her. She just wagged her tail.

               He felt restless, thinking about which path he would take. He had climbed them all so many times. On impulse, he drove past the usual hill and pressed on to another place where he liked to hike. It was another wilderness area sitting cheek by jowl with a Planned Community that they'd built there in the last ten years. He had taken advantage of their brand new roads and alleys to teach all his children how to parallel park. It was a curious place full of beautiful houses built so close to each other that it reminded him of the pretty girls in middle school walking with their shoulders huddled close together to exclude the less popular girls. All the streets were named after prominent Canadian cultural icons so that some of their glow would adhere to the upwardly mobile home-buyers. They had no fear of the homeless on their privileged properties; they were at least ten miles from the downtown area. The poor would have to take a bus.

               He parked by the school that the developer had built for the Community. He noted that it was a Traditional school. It was another sign that these people longed for a mythical past where all their neighbours were good people and all their kids played together in their tiny yards. He couldn't really blame them. Homeless people always made him feel vaguely guilty for being a homeowner with a dog and a nice car. He was judging the Community for being just like him, if a little more brazen about it. Time to hike.

               He knew that somewhere behind the school he could catch the trail that lead into a good hiking area. After a few red herrings involving trails that suggested the right direction but petered out under massive cedars and hemlocks, he found the right trail and started down the brisk descent to the creek. There was a couple of logs for a bridge but he didn't know how rotted they were so he trod lightly. The spaniel had no such hesitation and raced across as if to say, "Hurry up! There's great things to smell over here!" No sooner had they crossed over than he could see the road ahead. He hated the thought of just walking on asphalt to link up with the return trail so he decided to probe the bush to the north of the road. Perhaps there would be a trail roughly parallel to the road?

               He wandered along the road until he saw a bright yellow meridian laid across an obvious trail head to keep the 4 by 4'ers out. God bless the government for making such an obvious signpost. He started to hike up the steep muddy trail. As he climbed, willing his middle-aged body to keep on going, he noticed the spaniel frisking up the trail like she was a pup, like gravity didn't apply to her. He stopped at the summit to catch his breath and look out over the vista. He saw the Community where he'd parked and was surprised at how far away it looked. Time to get a move on before the winter sun gave up the ghost around four o'clock.

               The trail was covered over with dead leaves and difficult to make out in the shade of the evergreens. He just followed the spaniel. Dogs always knew which way to take. She was always looking back as if to say, "This way, right?" "Good girl!" he would say. It was a good partnership. They walked under trees that had been blown over in the last windstorm. Many of these trees were covered thickly with luminous emerald moss and leaning over precariously as though bowing to him. It was a bit like walking through a green fairy land, he thought, especially when the sun burst through the clouds and lit up the trees. Green fire, he thought to himself. He wished his cheap cell's camera could capture such glory.

               I stopped to look all around him. It was like being in a royal court, all lit up and hushed with expectation, waiting for the king to take his throne on Coronation Day. What a curious thought, he mused. Too much Tolkien lately. Nevertheless, he didn't move but joined the trees in wordless expectation.

               It occurred to him that the air was charged with a Presence. He dropped slowly to his middle-aged knees. He felt like he had the time he was in the ancient monastery scriptorium. Was he in a holy place like Jacob sleeping with a rock for his pillow? His dog, spiritually deaf and dumb, nosed him indicating the trail ahead of them and how wonderful it would be to get back to it. "Hush," he whispered to her, scratching her under her chin. She sighed and settled down beside him to suck at one of her paws.

               Through the canopy of the Douglas firs over his head, the sun send her rays down illumining him as though he was under a spotlight. He felt compelled to wait. But for what? he wondered. Patience, counselled an inner voice.

               He heard a flock of birds fly overhead singing and as he watched them flying north to south, en masse, they abruptly wheeled around and -still singing-landed in the firs all around him, like a congregation taking their seats in the pews. Why were they singing? Why are you kneeling?

               I am in the presence of God, he said quietly stilling the voices competing inside his head. He could feel a Presence ever more acutely all around him. If I had eyes to see, would I see angels? Would I see a bush burning? Wheels within wheels a-turnin'? He shivered with ecstasy, tears streaming from his eyes.

               And just like that, it was gone and he was alone again. No, not alone just maybe a little less Together, he thought. The birds flew off to follow the angels into the suddenly cloudy sky.

Meeting

                                                           

 

                              A typical New Year morning on the Coast. After a bright, promising sunrise, the earth surrendered its stored-up coolness to condense the water vapour which was invisible not five minutes ago. Now it's so misty that trees barely a hundred feet away are only hazy outlines like an old man's short term memory.

               He went outside to gaze at his trees. They were pearled with dew and dripping in a restful way. He smiled to see tiny fat birds hopping on the slender branches like outsized Christmas ornaments. The air wasn't exactly cold, not like what it was like up North. There, they would have killed for a mild January morning like this. But at least when it wasn't snowing in the higher latitudes, it was piercingly bright. The Coast was more like an impressionist sketch, all muted tones and softness. The North was photo-realism: all clearly demarcated planes, and sharp edges. Naked sun reflected off of snow will do that. Nobody ever suffered snow blindness on the Coast.

               Coastal sun was like your granny's hugs, gentle, soppy, undemanding, hidden in endless folds of old woman clothing. It was more hinted at than realized. Even the weather reports on the Coast were cursed with a sense of maybe-not-likely-but-maybe. Only a weatherman here can get away with the imprecision of a forecast suggesting that there was a 40 percent chance of rain, clouds, partial sun. Why not throw in a 5 percent chance of a tsunami to make it interesting?

               His wife was a Northern girl. She mourned the insipid winters here, moaned at the continual lowering skies, gray and dull. She was like a rainbow trout forced to live in a duck pond, muddy and opaque. She remembers mad Viking winters that killed and laughed in the killing. Blizzards that closed down the interstate, and plows working twenty-four-seven. She remembers jumping off the roof of her parents' barn with her brothers  into snow drifts five feet high.

               Here on the Coast, it could snow too but generally it would create just a momentarily frosted landscape subject to almost immediate melting and blending into a dirty slush, an Ovaltine smoothy.

               It had snowed just before Christmas which sent the children into a frenzy of  snowman-building and their parents into a less enthusiastic campaign of driveway-clearing. It didn't last, of course, because on the Coast there is an unwritten rule stating that all snow must be melted by Christmas Day.

               He passed by his little garden and smiled to see flower buds under the weather-beaten leaves of his hellebore looking as though they were pondering the risk of opening earlier this year. It must be difficult to be a plant here, he mused. You never know when the weather would toss an unexpected curve ball at you. He remembered a November several years ago where a sudden Arctic outflow had shocked some of his plants, killing half a hydrangea that wasn't planted far enough out of the icy wind. All of his careful pruning next spring could not hide its quadriplegia. He eventually had to dig it up and consign it to the compost heap.

               He looked past the cold drizzle into the sky past the power lines. There was a dim pearly brightness to the west which promised what? More rain? Torrents of rain? Buckets? Cats and dogs? He thought about a hike into the green hills. Sometimes when the clouds were low enough, you could climb right through them up into blue skies. It made him feel a little like a Norse god, enthroned in light while his poor huddled humanity struggled blindly in bleak darkness.

               The hill was ringed about with hiking trails courtesy of the local mountain bike club. So devoted to their obsession were they that they carved miles of switchbacks over bridges of split-cedar and jumps that chilled him to consider flying off. No wonder the most avid ones were armoured and helmeted like they were about to be shot out of a cannon.

               It was a truly crappy day for a hike but as he liked to brag to his long suffering friends, "If we don't go up when the weather's terrible we'd never hike here." His wife was stoically accustomed to his muddy wet boots tracking up the front hall and him appearing hair plastered flat to his skull and  as bedraggled as though he'd hiked through a waterfall. Getting dreadfully wet always made him feel like he'd accomplished something great for which he could reward himself with a steaming cup of tea elevated by a shot of Grand Marnier.

               He called to his cocker spaniel and plucked his car keys from their hook. For some reason, the dog would not venture out into the rain. He found himself dragging her by the leash if she judged it to be too wet for her ebony curls. But jingle the keys and she was in the car like a shot not wanting to miss the potential fun. Once they had driven to their parking space on the hill, she was as gung-ho for a walk as he was despite the deluge.

               She stole onto the passenger seat where she could fully enjoy the drive. He preferred her in the back where his wife had laid out on old blanket but the dog could not be dissuaded. "I should have called you 'Shotgun'," he said to her. She just wagged her tail.

               He felt restless, thinking about which path he would take. He had climbed them all so many times. On impulse, he drove past the usual hill and pressed on to another place where he liked to hike. It was another wilderness area sitting cheek by jowl with a Planned Community that they'd built there in the last ten years. He had taken advantage of their brand new roads and alleys to teach all his children how to parallel park. It was a curious place full of beautiful houses built so close to each other that it reminded him of the pretty girls in middle school walking with their shoulders huddled close together to exclude the less popular girls. All the streets were named after prominent Canadian cultural icons so that some of their glow would adhere to the upwardly mobile home-buyers. They had no fear of the homeless on their privileged properties; they were at least ten miles from the downtown area. The poor would have to take a bus.

               He parked by the school that the developer had built for the Community. He noted that it was a Traditional school. It was another sign that these people longed for a mythical past where all their neighbours were good people and all their kids played together in their tiny yards. He couldn't really blame them. Homeless people always made him feel vaguely guilty for being a homeowner with a dog and a nice car. He was judging the Community for being just like him, if a little more brazen about it. Time to hike.

               He knew that somewhere behind the school he could catch the trail that lead into a good hiking area. After a few red herrings involving trails that suggested the right direction but petered out under massive cedars and hemlocks, he found the right trail and started down the brisk descent to the creek. There was a couple of logs for a bridge but he didn't know how rotted they were so he trod lightly. The spaniel had no such hesitation and raced across as if to say, "Hurry up! There's great things to smell over here!" No sooner had they crossed over than he could see the road ahead. He hated the thought of just walking on asphalt to link up with the return trail so he decided to probe the bush to the north of the road. Perhaps there would be a trail roughly parallel to the road?

               He wandered along the road until he saw a bright yellow meridian laid across an obvious trail head to keep the 4 by 4'ers out. God bless the government for making such an obvious signpost. He started to hike up the steep muddy trail. As he climbed, willing his middle-aged body to keep on going, he noticed the spaniel frisking up the trail like she was a pup, like gravity didn't apply to her. He stopped at the summit to catch his breath and look out over the vista. He saw the Community where he'd parked and was surprised at how far away it looked. Time to get a move on before the winter sun gave up the ghost around four o'clock.

               The trail was covered over with dead leaves and difficult to make out in the shade of the evergreens. He just followed the spaniel. Dogs always knew which way to take. She was always looking back as if to say, "This way, right?" "Good girl!" he would say. It was a good partnership. They walked under trees that had been blown over in the last windstorm. Many of these trees were covered thickly with luminous emerald moss and leaning over precariously as though bowing to him. It was a bit like walking through a green fairy land, he thought, especially when the sun burst through the clouds and lit up the trees. Green fire, he thought to himself. He wished his cheap cell's camera could capture such glory.

               I stopped to look all around him. It was like being in a royal court, all lit up and hushed with expectation, waiting for the king to take his throne on Coronation Day. What a curious thought, he mused. Too much Tolkien lately. Nevertheless, he didn't move but joined the trees in wordless expectation.

               It occurred to him that the air was charged with a Presence. He dropped slowly to his middle-aged knees. He felt like he had the time he was in the ancient monastery scriptorium. Was he in a holy place like Jacob sleeping with a rock for his pillow? His dog, spiritually deaf and dumb, nosed him indicating the trail ahead of them and how wonderful it would be to get back to it. "Hush," he whispered to her, scratching her under her chin. She sighed and settled down beside him to suck at one of her paws.

               Through the canopy of the Douglas firs over his head, the sun send her rays down illumining him as though he was under a spotlight. He felt compelled to wait. But for what? he wondered. Patience, counselled an inner voice.

               He heard a flock of birds fly overhead singing and as he watched them flying north to south, en masse, they abruptly wheeled around and -still singing-landed in the firs all around him, like a congregation taking their seats in the pews. Why were they singing? Why are you kneeling?

               I am in the presence of God, he said quietly stilling the voices competing inside his head. He could feel a Presence ever more acutely all around him. If I had eyes to see, would I see angels? Would I see a bush burning? Wheels within wheels a-turnin'? He shivered with ecstasy, tears streaming from his eyes.

               And just like that, it was gone and he was alone again. No, not alone just maybe a little less Together, he thought. The birds flew off to follow the angels into the suddenly cloudy sky.

Another Unlikely Adventure for Tim, Boy Magician

               Tim was infuriated. His granny had, once again, overridden his explicit instructions not to wake him up before noon. "Senile old bat," he muttered well under his breath. Granny Hazel might look fragile but she had the unpleasant habit of punctuating her main points in any debate with a knitting needle.

               He went on muttering as he sluiced cold water on his face. Why did he go out drinking with Ted the Indistinct and John G. Fabulous? They were losers and probably budding alcoholics. He knew that he couldn't handle such activities with his inexperienced liver but he was bored, bored, bored! Living with Granny H. was like living in  a public library: no loud talking, no spitting, and no fun. But at least she had been willing to take him in after his big blow-up with Dick Deadly, the Necrotizer. Gad, what a miscalculation that had been! If he was lucky some of his body hair would grow back before middle age.

               Meanwhile, he needed a job so that he could get away from Granny H's tender care. He went back to his bed stand and gave Wizard's Weekly (motto: spells by the ell) a determined perusal. He was in luck. One of the ads in the back was seeking a magician with pluck and panache to rid a well-situated village from the depredations of a ruthless band of dwarves. Dwarves? Tim snorted. He would clean up the half pints and collect his bag of gold in a quick hour!

               He sneaked his way quietly out of his Granny's cottage to avoid an unpleasant argument and was soon on his way to Lower Swithin to make his fortune.

               You'd like Lower Swithin. Lovely town center with an actual Italian fountain bubbling merrily in the middle, spacious meeting hall where the franklins meet with the mayor each Wednesday, and a merry brook running along its western wall. Tim whistled, impressed as all heck. This was a rich village. Perhaps, he'd settle here, marry and build a nice bungalow. Things were looking up for him.

               "Hold on, you!" said a hairy voice, which belonged to a green skinned goblin. A goblin with sharp claws and even sharper fangs. Long and unpleasantly white fangs which were glistening in the bright August sun.

               "Who are you?" asked Tim politely.

               "I'm a goblin, you ijjit!" snarled the goblin. "'Oo t'hell are you?"

               "Er...I'm just here to visit my sick uncle. I mean you no harm," said Tim, hoping to placate the hideous creature.

               "You mean me no 'arm?" laughed the goblin. "Pipsqueak  like you!"

               "Appearances can be deceiving," said Tim, a little stung by the goblin's snide words.

               "Yeah, they'd 'ave t'be!" snickered the goblin. "You look like a soft-palmed, lily-livered bit of baby's puke!"

               "Oh yes?" said Tim, heatedly. "Allaka-reelo, chango-forrealzo!" he chanted, pointing his left hand directly at the goblin's misshapen snout. Immediately the goblin's nose turned into a butterfly which fluttered off, leaving the goblin looking nonplussed.

               "A magician?" gasped the goblin in an excessively nasal voice which I will not even attempt to reproduce.

               "That's right, punk. And if you don't want to risk losing another body part you'd better take me to the mayor immediately!" Tim was feeling pleased as punch with his spell. It's nice when it works on the first go and Tim's spells did not always do so.

               "Now you're for it!" snarled the goblin, running into a nearby hut.

               Immediately, a troop of goblins came raging out brandishing unpleasant-looking swords and hooting with rage.

               "These are not dwarves!" said Tim, who was pretty quick on the uptake. "Allaka-smoothy, Gravitas removy," he said quickly. Now, that spell should have caused the goblin horde to start floating in the air like dandelion seeds (only more hideous) but unfortunately he got it a bit wrong. He started to float himself which worked out rather well because at least he was now out of sword-slash range.

               The wind carried him over to a large oak tree where Tim grabbed a nearby branch and tried to remember how to do the spell removal spell. There was something about lifting....shifting? drifting? Tim tried to concentrate with the horde of goblins racing to the oak and trying to climb with outsized swords in their claws (rather harder than you'd imagine).

               Tim saw that one of the brighter goblins (damning with faint praise, I know) had dropped his sword and was flinging himself up the oak like an oversized (and hideous) squirrel. Tim was forced to let go of the oak and continue floating away. The goblins hooted with rage and followed him on his cross-country flight. Tim thought furiously. You can appreciate that his options were limited: cancel the spell and he would be goblin food, or keep on floating and hope that the goblins would tire of their sport. Tim decided that he would try to outlast them. Goblins are a determined lot though and these ones followed him for the better part of the day.

               Then Tim finally had a cunning idea. Goblins can't swim, can they? He would say the wings spell, sprout a pair of fine wings and fly to the sea. Let them come swimming after him! Brilliant!

               "Allaka-zingo, presto-chango-wingso!" he intoned.

               He immediately plunged to the ground where he was seized by the horde of angry goblins. Stupid wings spell thought Tim to himself.

               The goblins carried him back to the village where they had taken up residence. Tim was jostled up and down so vigorously that he felt his brain would come loose at its moorings. It made it hard to remember any helpful spells.

               Tim was tied to a large pole in the village square and goblins started tossing bits of wood and paper at his toes. Tim had a bad feeling about all this. Apparently goblins like their food well cooked. The wings spell was a dismal failure but every spell cast yields some sort of result. And although Tim's "wing spell" did not give him wings, it wasn't without effect, as you will see.

               A particularly hideous goblin (his teeth were perhaps a little more jagged than the rest) brandished a torch and with a revolting chuckle he lit it and thrust it toward the fire. As soon as the torch got within ten feet of Tim it blew up like a firecracker in the startled goblin's claws. All the goblins hooted uncertainly. The very hideous goblin jumped up and down trying to put out the fire which engulfed him.

               "Gaaah!" said the V.H.G. in pain and outrage. He was echoed by all of the other goblins. Being a goblin (determined if not so bright) he relit the torch and marched on poor Tim to set the bonfire ablaze. The same result occurred: and once more the V.H.G. was jumping around putting out the fire on his rather blackened claws.

               Tim was greatly cheered and his brain began working again. "Had enough?" he called out. The goblins fell silent, even the V.H.G. "Maybe you'd like me to set you all on fire?" yelled the plucky lad. All of the goblins howled out a strong protest, especially the V.H.G. "Then you'd better untie me or else!" he cried. Instead all of the goblins lit out for the safety of forest leaving Tim alone at his post. Tim said some unkind things about goblins at that point.

               "Did they all leave?" asked a tiny voice.

               "They did," said Tim wondering who he was talking to.

               "You must be a great wizard," said the voice.

               "Why thank you," said Tim politely. "With whom am I speaking?" he asked, displaying some of his excellent grammar. (He'd always had top marks in English)

               "It's your fairy grandmother," said the voice, as musical as a bell on Easter morning.

               "Don't you mean fairy godmother?" asked Tim.

               "I do not," said the voice, now curiously familiar. Tim gulped. It was the voice of Hazel.

               "Gramma H?" he gulped. She appeared and poked Tim in the stomach with one of her knitting needles.

               "You're (poke) lucky to (poke) have me!" she said. "You're also lucky (poke) that I followed you. What (poke) would you do without me?" and she gave Tim another juicy jab with her needle.

               "But Gramma, you saw me defeat the goblins, didn't you?" he whined.

               "That was me, you foolish boy. Now hold still while I untie you and get you home. It's time for you to rub my bunions!"

               Tim shuddered.

Tim's Final Adventure

-1-

               Tim was in deep dung this time, that was for certain. Or he soon would be and quite literally too.

               He was suspended by his heels on a fraying rope over a huge vat of steaming cow excrement bound hand and foot in very serious chains. Not for the last time, he asked himself how he thought he could ever get away with trying to filch Oswald the Horrid's magic candelabra. It was all Miranda's fault, he thought bitterly. She said that it would be easy: that Oswald was sure to be asleep, that the magic elixir would disable the Dreadful Ogre, that it would be a walk in the park, a veritable lark! He should have listened to that still, quiet voice in him that warned him that it wouldn't be that easy. Miranda had turned her green and hazel eyes on him and he had been as incapable of making a rational decision as a ventriloquist's dummy.

               She was trouble from the word go.

               He had met her at a garden party put on by the Duchess of Lingondorf last Tuesday. He went as a representative of the Magician's Guild because he was the most junior member and all the other magicians thought that the Duchess was the most tedious woman in the land and her parties were about as exciting as hearing a stutterer recite pi to seventy places.

               Tim paced about trying to look mysterious and forbidding so the old biddies who made up ninety percent of the guest list would not collar him in conversation. "A magician, did ye say? Eh? Know some good tricks, do ye? Pull a rabbit out your hat, can ye?" He was sipping a tiny cup of black tea and suddenly his jaw dropped which caused him to spill tea on his ornate black robes. As he gaped, in walked the most stunning woman he had ever seen. He quickly wiped his robe with a napkin and tried to think of something brilliant to say.

               She gave him a quick once over and favoured him with a knee-melting smile.

               "Are you a magician?" She asked in melodious tones, her russet hair shimmering in the sun.

               "Grmph," gulped Tim. "Yes, I am," he said persuading his larynx to play along.

               "I have a proposition for you," she laughed.

               Tim spilled even more tea on himself.

-------------

               They sat together by a laughing fountain and she outlined an audacious plan. She told him about the Troubles of the Clan MacInnit. They were strong, wealthy and happy in a Gatsby sort of way. That is until Gregor, her father, inherited the castle just to the east of the most vile and pestilent wizard ever known, the aforementioned Oswald the Horrid.

               It was a castle that Oswald, himself, had desired for a couple of decades and he had offered the Clan MacInnit a bag of gold for it. Gregor had been unwisely brisk in his refusal and had earned Oswald's wrath. From that moment, unpleasant but untraceable bad luck had descended on the MacInnits. Cows had exploded (maiming several), a tower was struck by lightning (killing six), and worst of all, the King's tax collectors descended like a plague of locusts. Miranda was the only one of the MacInnits who still inhabited the castle; all the other MacInnits had already hightailed it for their summer home in the south of France. You see, Miranda was as stubborn as she was beautiful. And she had a plan.

               The source of Oswald's power was a magic candelabra locked away in a magic chest, which was sealed in a magic chamber and guarded by the Dreadful Ogre. Perhaps calling an Ogre "dreadful" is redundant, but this was a particularly repulsive specimen, with fangs of heart-stopping size and claws that rend and tear. (Also a painful lisp but nobody's perfect.)

               Her plan ran as follows: she would sit down with Oswald for a little tete a tete, giving him the hope that she was on the cusp of selling him the castle. While they were talking, she would slip a powerful sleeping potion into his wine. As he slept, she would let Tim into the castle and together they would disable the Dreadful Ogre with a powerful spell of Tom's choosing. They would break into the magic chamber using a Miracle key for which Miranda had paid big doubloons. Once they had the chest nothing would be easier that cancelling Oswald's spell with any number of incantations of which Tim was doubtless cognisant. Tim would have liked to explain that he was a very junior member of the Magician's Guild but he lost his nerve in view of her heart-stopping loveliness.

               The plan started extremely well. Miranda had managed to put Oswald into a deep slumber and she'd gotten Tim safely into the castle. The plan unraveled when Tim was faced with the Dreadful Ogre.

               "Thstop right there, vile varlet," boomed the D.O.

               "Allaka zoom!" incanted Tim, waving his outstretched fingers at him.

               "Allaka thzoom?" said the lisping creature, his fangs dripping drool and sarcasm. "Is that thsuposed to be thsome thsort of thspell?"

               "It is indeed," said Tim, almost sure that's how the sleeping spell was cast.

               "Why isn't it working?" said Miranda. "I thought you were supposed to be a powerful magician!"

               In a thrice, the D.O. was on poor Tim. Within seconds, he found himself bound in chains and cast into a dark cell. What had happened to Miranda, Tim did not know, nor did he much care. He pondered his fate and determined that this was absolutely the  worst pickle he ever been in. That is until the next morning, when Oswald strung him up over a vat of bubbling turds. It certainly didn't help when Oswald informed Tim that the rope suspending him would melt in a short hour allowing gravity to do her job in plunging the chained not-quite-magician into the boiling excrement.

               Tim wriggled in his chains, almost fainting from the overly ripe smell that surrounded him. Now what was that spell for weightlessness? The rope was showing signs of thinning and fraying.

               "Light as a feather/light as a cloud/solid to gas/chango-presto/lift me up now!" Tim could feel an effervescent tingling starting at the roots of his hair and travelling down his spine until he could feel his whole body relax. To Tim's intense interest, his feet started to melt and then form into a cloud. The process continued through his torso: a melting and then an evaporation. The chains, having nothing but vapour to grip, fell right into the bubbling excrement. Meanwhile, Tim the Cloud, rose high above the cauldron, gathering in a corner of the ceiling and confusing a spider who'd just finished her web.  

                The door burst open and Oswald noted with pleasure the frayed rope and madly bubbling cauldron. He laughed a nefarious laugh and gave himself a good pat on his back for the wizard was as flexible as he was vile.

               "Now to crush that upstart MacInnit girl ," he snarled and ran out the door.

               Tim shivered with relief. Time to change himself back into substantial flesh and head for the hills. Miranda would have to figure out how to deal with Oswald on her own without his help, that was for sure.

               He opened his mouth, which is to say that the water vapor where his mouth used to be shifted a little and Tim tried to speak a counter spell. Of course, he was far too insubstantial to form any real words. He no longer had a voice box or vocal chords. Was he doomed to be a cloud forever? He would have wept but the room wasn't cold enough to cause him to condense.

               Just then, a familiar voice cried out: "Magician, are you there?" It was Miranda! How had she gotten past Oswald? Tim drifted down to her and he attempted in his gaseous form to communicate with her.

               Miranda peered at the cloud floating in front of her. Where had it come from? Where was her wonder-worker? She wrinkled her lovely nose. What was that hideous smell? Obviously, the smell came from the bubbling cauldron. She peeked over the edge and saw the chains that formerly bound Tim. Her eyes filled with tears.

               Tim didn't gape, because clouds have no mouths (as we've already established) but he was amazed. Could it be that she was weeping over his demise? He floated around her attempting a gaseous embrace but all she did was try to brush away the vapour.

               Suddenly, she stopped stock still as an interesting thought struck her. "Is this you, Magician?" she asked putting her hand in the middle of the cloud. Tim could say nothing (literally).

               "If this is you, float up to the ceiling!" she commanded. Tim did so.

               "Aha! So it is you," she said. "Come back down and we will get you fixed." Tim floated down. She held out a bottle and unstoppered it . "Slide yourself in here and I'll find someone from your Guild to change you back into a boy."

               A boy, groaned Tim the Cloud, internally. That's how she saw him? He slid into the bottle feeling both juvenile and wretched.

 

-2-

              

               "What now, Magician?" asked Miranda.

               "Well, one thing for sure, I won't be going back to Lingondorf again!" snorted Tim. "They'll be telling the story of the magician who enchanted himself into a corner for the next hundred years!"

               "Unless, of course, you settle Oswald's hash for good," said Miranda, arching her lovely eyebrows. Then the Guild would probably make you their Wizard of the Year."

               "And how am I supposed to do that?"

               "I am formulating another plan," she smiled.

               "I was afraid of that," he said glumly.

               "Oh, don't worry. This plan will depend on cunning, not magic."

               "Then why do you need a magician?"

               "I need a friend," she said, which shut Tim up. A friend?

---

               Oswald was pottering around in his garden, deadheading the tulips and weeding gently around his lavenders. He may have been an evil genius but he did love his garden, which just goes to show you something or other.

               "More manure, thsir?" asked the D.O., who Oswald had dragooned into helping him.

               "Just a bit around the boxwoods, there's a good fellow," said Oswald.

               "Thstrange," said the D.O.

               "What?"

               "Thith manure thseems short of bonesth!"

               "Ridiculous," said Osward. "You just haven't scraped the bottom of the caudron yet!"

               "Yeth, I have!" protested the D.O. "Thsee for yourthself!"

               "You're right," murmured Oswald, after he'd done some intensive scraping. "The little weasel must have escaped. You know what this means?"

               "Um..." The D.O. was not a great thinker.

               "It means we can expect another visit. Miranda MacInnit and her accomplice will not give up so easily!"

               "I would have ththought the cauldron of thshit would have dithscouraged her," said the Ogre.

               "She's a redhead," said Oswald.

               "Thsay no more," nodded the D.O.

               "I think that we'd better take extra precautions with the Magic Candelabra," said Oswald. "Summon the Magic Monkeys!"

               "Are you thsure? I'm not the evil geniuth, but..."

               "That's right! I'm the evil genius here and I say get the Monkeys!"

               "If you inthsist," muttered the D.O. He hated the Monkeys.

               He stomped over to the Monkey Wing and stood fully erect in front of the cage.

               "Attention, Monkeysth!" he bellowed. "Othwald hath need of your thervices!"

               "That bozo! Why should we help him!" sneered one plucky simian.

               "Yeah, what's he ever done for us?" snarled another.

               "He ith your liege!" said the D.O., with a rapidly sinking heart. "You owe him your obedianth!"

               "What's in it for us?" came the monkey chorus.

               "I'll get you more bananath," said the D.O.

               All of the monkeys whooped for joy. There was nothing they wouldn't do for bananas.

------------------

               It was a dark and stormy night (or it would have been if the wind hadn't blown all the storm clouds over the Grimm Mountains). As it was, the night was full of stars and Tim's heart was full of hope. Which just goes to show that you should never pin your sense of well-being on the vagrancies of the weather. He and Miranda were scoping out Oswald's perimeter and putting her well-honed plan to the test. She had an elegant spyglass.

               "Looks good," she said. "Hmmm..."

               "What 'hmmm'?" said Tim.

               "Magic monkeys on the wall; looks like old Ozzie is stepping up his defences." And then she said a word that any really ladylike girl should not use.

               "That screws up your plan," he said.

               "No, it just modifies it a bit," she frowned. "Are you good with animals?"

               "I had a white rat once," said Tim.

               "Try pleading with them," she urged.

               "Ok, I'm sure monkeys can be reasoned with," he said. At times, Tim could be painfully naive.

               "Psst! Hey monkeys" hissed Tim once he arrived at the stone wall.

               "What do you want, punk kid?" yelled one of the monkeys.

               "I need your help!"

               "Get lost!"

               "Please!"

               "Get stuffed!"

               "Pretty please with sugar on top!"

               "Get bent!"

               There was no reasoning or pleading with the Monkeys. Tim racked his brain which caused a few neurons to quiver.

               "Why not?" he hissed.

               "Ogre has promised bananath!" lisped one, which caused all the monkeys to giggle at the Ogre's expense.

               "Bananas? I'll give you twice as many as he will!" bargained Tim.

               The Monkeys huddled on the wall to discuss their potential treason.

               "Twice as many bananas, brothers!" said one.

               "Done deal," nodded all the others.

               "Okay, we'll let you in as soon as you show us the bananas!" called the monkeys down to Tim.

               "I'll be right back," said Tim.

               After a quick run to the neighbourhood fruit peddler, Tim and Miranda came back with a huge bunch of bananas. Soon, they were in the castle, with the monkeys messily hooting over their fruit back in the courtyard.

               "So those were Magic Monkeys?" said Miranda.

               "Yup, you can tell by the golden capes," said Tim, who once wrote a research paper on magic animals for extra credit in Wizard Correspondence School.

               "If they're magic, why didn't they just use magic to make their own bananas?" asked Miranda.

               "They're magic monkeys, not rocket scientists," said Tim.

               "Hush, here's the magic chamber," whispered Miranda. "Are you ready?"

               "Bring it on!" said Tim, capable of a bit of bravado every now and then.

               She opened the door with her Miracle Key and surprised the D.O. in mid-nose-pick.

               "The red-headed damthel!" he cried, finger still wedged nostrilward. "Prepare for thome therious rending!"

               "I very much doubt it," said Miranda confidently.

               "What?" said the confused Ogre. "And why not, if I may be tho bold?"

               "Because we're on to you, Ogre. We know your guilty secret and if you don't let us in we'll tell everybody!"

               "But if you do, I'll be laughed out of the Monthster's Society!" wept the dread Ogre.

               "Then you'd better let us in!" crowed Miranda.

               "Oh very well," pouted the Ogre.

               Once they were inside the chamber, Tim gave Miranda a huge hug; the kind that you never forget.

               "How did you know it had a guilty secret?" he asked.

               "Everyone does, you know," she said, tapping the side of her nose with an index finger in a Gallic gesture of worldly wisdom.

               "What's yours?" he asked.

               "I wax my upper lip," she said. "What's yours?"

               "I like to do macramé," he grinned.

                Together, they searched the room for the magic chest.

               "What makes it magic anyway?" asked Tim who had never covered magic chests in his previous apprenticeships.

               "It blows up if you're not its owner," she said.

               "So if we try to steal it, it blows up?"

               "Most assuredly," she nodded.

               "But that would destroy the source of Oswald's power!" he protested.

               "Oswald figures that nobody would be stupid enough to get blown up just to destroy his power."

               "No doubt," he said. "So how are you going to open it without it blowing up?"

               "I'm not."

               "Pardon?"

               "I'm going to blow myself up to avenge my family. Without the candelabra, Oswald will be powerless and my father can deal with him in a way that Oswald is sure to find unpleasant," she said.

               "But, that's crazy!" said Tim.

               "Is it? Good, another tidbit for my therapist," she said.

               "But seriously," said Tim.

               "You think I'd joke about this?"

               "There must be a way to get the candelabra and defeat Oswald that way!" Tim was desperate; he couldn't lose Miranda.

                "Well, we can rule out your magic, I guess," she said. That hurt.

               "What if we stole the chest and hid it away?" said Tim.

               "As long as the candelabra is intact, so is Oswald's power." Her face was grim.

               "What if we stole it and threw a boulder at it to crack it open. It would blow up then, wouldn't it?"

               "It only responds to a key that isn't Oswald's key being inserted in the keyhole. The chest itself is indestructible."

               "Rats," said Tim.

               "I know," said Miranda. "You'd better leave. Why should we both die?"

               "I don't want to lose you!" cried Tim. "There must be something we can do!"

               "I can't think of anything. Not unless you have Oswald's key."

               "I'll get it!" cried Tim feeling brave and resourceful. "Where is it?"

               "On a chain around Oswald's neck."

               "Why didn't you steal it when you gave him the sleeping potion?"

               "As long as his candelabra is intact, the key cannot be removed."

               "A perfect magic loop," muttered Tim. "That Oswald is a pretty cagy bird."

               "So you see, blowing up the chest is my only option," said Miranda.

               Tim swallowed hard and racked his brain. His eyes opened wide as the only solution occurred to him.

               "Oswald has to open the chest and give us the candelabra," he said.

               "That's so very obvious," she remarked with a considerably sarcastic edge to her voice. "I'm amazed that I didn't think of it."

               "Now how do we accomplish that?" mused Tim, pacing to and fro with his left hand massaging the back of his neck.

               "You tell me," said Miranda.

               "What do we know about Oswald?" Tim was brainstorming so hard that little lightning bolts were leaping from his prefrontal lobe.

               "He's a paragon of evil," she said.

               "Dig a little deeper," urged Tim.

               "He loves gardening."

               "Good."

               "He's an egomaniac."

               "Check."

               "He owns a pair of ruby slippers."

               "Hmmm."

               "Are you coming up with anything?" she said.

               "What could cause Oswald to open the magic chest?"

               "He would only open it if he wanted to check up on it...but..."

               "And why would he do that?" interrupted Tim.

               "Maybe if he thought something was wrong with it?" Miranda's brain was percolating like a Yellowstone mud pot.

               "And what could cause him to think that?" asked Tim.

               "Who does Oswald trust?"

               "Nobody! He's evil! Evil people don't trust, it's one thing that makes them evil."

               "Doesn't he have a fairy godmother?"

               "Oh yeah. Of course he does."

               "All we have to do is find her and pay her off to tell Oswald that she's had a vision or something and he's in great danger because the candelabra is breaking down. Something like that could work!"

               "It sounds a bit thin," said Miranda, perhaps a bit ticked that she didn't think of the idea.

----------------

3

               Glissenda was pottering around in her cottage, organizing her magic crystals according to colour, clarity and power. She picked up a blue amethyst that she'd collected while in the jungles near Rangoon and smiled. A perfect gem for concocting a love potion. She put it in the top drawer and made a notation on her hand held device. (She might be thousands of years old, but at heart she was a modern fairy and moved with the times.)

               She heard a rapping at her door and frowned. She hated being disturbed while organizing or cleaning. If it was one of those pesky door to door peddlers, she'd turn him into something unpleasant. She ignored the door and went back to her cataloging. Another rapping. She stifled an oath and flung the door open.

               "Right! What are you selling?" she snarled suspiciously.

               Tim and Miranda smiled broadly at her.

               "Madame, how would you like to make some serious coin?" said Tim.

               "How would you like to become a centipede?" said Glissenda, figuring them for scam artists.

               Miranda held out a bag of gold coins.

               "Well, well," said the fairy, her eyes glinting with avarice . "Why don't you come in and tell me more?"

               Over cups of some sort of herbal tea, they told her what they needed.

               The fairy peered over her cup as they looked expectantly at her. "So you'll give me a bag of gold, if I send word to Oswald that somehow I found out that his candelabra is breaking down and that he needs to bring it back to me for servicing?"

               They nodded.

               "I'll do it," she said. The gold would enable her to finally purchase those pink diamonds that she'd had her eyes on for ages. It was the only thing she'd lacked for a really top drawer elixir of youth.

--------------

               Oswald was back in his garden when his magic cell phone chimed. (Of course evil wizards have the latest in technology; they might even be to blame for some of its excesses.)

               "What do you mean, disturbing me when I'm in my gar...Oh, it's you! Sorry Auntie. No, no...I'm always delighted to hear from you. What? My candelabra? Are you serious? But..." He listened in growing horror as his fairy godmother spun her tale.

               "I'll be right there! Just give me two shakes to get my magic carpet!" Oswald tore into his castle (almost knocking over a couple of magic monkeys who were trying to hide half-eaten bananas behind their backs) and into his magic chamber. He grabbed his magic chest and in no time was on his carpet headed for Glissenda's cottage.

---------

               "He's coming!" hissed Glissenda, who was monitoring the skies with the aid of her GPS. Tim and Miranda headed for their hiding places.

               "It's me!" shouted Oswald, thrusting himself through the cottage door.

               "Sit by the fire," suggested the fairy.

               "How can I sit when my glorious power is being threatened?" howled the agonized wizard.

               "Oh, stop being a drama queen," snarled Glissenda. "Didn't I tell you I could adjust it?"

               Oswald reluctantly sat, the magic chest perched on his lap.

               "Open it," ordered the fairy. Oswald took his key and opened the chest. Glissenda reached in and carefully pulled out a glittering silver candelabra.

               "It doesn't look broken," muttered Oswald, reaching for it.

               "Discernment was never one of your strengths, Ozzie," said Glissenda primly, holding tightly to it. "Leave it with me, I will give it the necessary adjustments and get it back to you by next Tuesday." She put the candelabra on her work bench.

               "Next Tuesday, but that's almost a week! What exactly do you have to do to my candelabra?"

               "Crystal therapy," she said. "You can't rush magic, Ozzie."

               "Oh, very well," said the vile magician. "I'll see you Tuesday, bright and early."

               "Come after tea; I hate having a rushed morning," she said.

               He snorted and flew out the door. Tim and Miranda rushed from their hiding places.

               "I can't believe he fell for that!" said Tim.

               "He didn't," said Miranda slowly, holding up the glittering object. "This isn't his magic candelabra!"

               "What? Let me see that!" cried Glissenda, grabbing it out of her hands.

               "Look!" said Miranda, point to the script on the bottom. "Made in Hong Kong."

               "That untrusting bastard!" said Glissenda, who was really not a very good fairy godmother.

               "I think it's ticking," said Tim.

               "Clear out!" yelled the fairy. "It's a bomb!"

               --------------

               "Thso, that's the end of them!" said the Dread Ogre looking at the satisfying explosion through a pair of binoculars.

               "It would appear so," said Oswald, looking through his own binoculars.

               "I love happy endingths," beamed the Ogre.

               "They're the best," agreed Oswald.