Magic’s Housekeeper

by Charles C. Cole

The reclusive wizard Methaglyn lived alone on the edge of the wilderness, all his waking hours focused on improving his metaphysical craft. One day, after years of dedication, he was going to be recognized by his peers as exceptional. An extraordinary goal required extraordinary commitment.

Reading quietly acquired rare journals of the legends who had come before him, Methaglyn spent hours conversing with wolves, growing pebbles into boulders, and — most exciting of all — viewing life through the eyes of random eagles soaring high overhead. His exclusive gifts were many, but his heavy dread was equally substantial. The more his abilities blossomed, the more he feared someone would raid his library and even incapacitate him out of coldblooded envy.

Though removed from society, one could not hide from the gaping and gossiping villagers always lurking in the nearby woods. So, when word of his activities spread, he was summoned to meet the regional governance committee on magic and witchcraft. He decided to leave his abilities behind, lest someone with more power get offended and challenge him or even ask for a complicated demonstration.

But one cannot simply leave one’s “essence” in a locked drawer; these ethereal qualities required “transference” to a more versatile, more familiar vessel: another human. The ideal temporary host should have modest ambitions as well as zero aptitude for magic. Methaglyn was therefore profoundly relieved to stumble conveniently upon a napping shepherd under a withered crab apple tree.

“Wake up, daydreamer,” commanded Methaglyn.

The shepherd stirred, then blinked.

“Can you stand?” inquired the wizard.

The shocked young man jumped to his feet and brushed himself off. “Afternoon,” he said, though it sounded like an apology.

“You’re on private land,” explained Methaglyn.

“Am I? It all looks the same to me: trees, fields, rocks, more trees, more fields, more rocks.”

“Are you sick or lost or merely hiding from your responsibilities?”

The recovering shepherd stared a steady moment at the wizard in a long purple robe. “You’re the odd little fella my friends talk about. Heard you lived nearby. I expected you to float or glow or at least sparkle.”

Methaglyn smiled with self-satisfaction; his myth had begun.

“You’re not going to turn me into a toad or something, are you?” asked the shepherd, leaning back. “Not over a simple mistake. It’s not like there are signs.”

“Actually,” said Methaglyn with an impish glint, “fortune smiles on you this day, my new friend.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’m in need of a favor but, as it turns out, I’ve no one to ask. Very little effort on your part, I promise.”

“Yes, I’m a virgin, through no fault of my own. And, no, I’m not interested in being sacrificed to your dark masters on the other side,” said the shepherd.

The wizard continued, undaunted, ignoring the initial resistance. “I’ve been called away for a formal event — something I cannot politely decline — and must travel light. I need a dependable caretaker to watch over a certain prized possession until I return.”

“Cat, crow or talking skull?”

“Nothing like that, I assure you. In fact, you may find the experience rather heady. I know I would.”

“What’s in it for me?” asked the shepherd, his interest piqued.

“You probably have no use for gold, but what about a way to get even with your oppressors or maybe a potion to get the lovely girl at the farm next door to fall madly in love with you?”

“You can do this?”

“And more,” admitted the wizard. “All solutions are guaranteed guilt-free. If we weren’t meant for greater things, the universe wouldn’t have put amazing opportunities right at our fingertips.”

“Guess it’s my lucky day after all,” said the shepherd. “What have I got to do?”

“Well, I’ll bet one day when you were a child, your best friend had something wonderful happen. Maybe he got a puppy. And you were happy because he was happy. You felt what he felt. It’s like that.”

“You lost me.”

“You are a shepherd, yes?”

“Most days.”

“Well, I just want you to shepherd my ‘emotions’ for a morning, half a day at most,” explained the wizard, “while I focus on decorum and making a good impression on my betters.”

“Your emotions?”

“To be more exact, my daydreams and desires, my creative center.”

“Your power?!” asked the shepherd in an unexpectedly reverential gasp.

“Not to use, mind you. More like we’re storing it in a safe place where nobody would ever look for it.”

“Inside me?!” whispered the shepherd, eyes opening wide.

“When you put it like that, I suppose I’m asking a lot of someone unfamiliar with the demands of magic. What was I thinking? I apologize, stranger.”

“Hiram Henley. That’s me. And I accept. I’ll do it.”

“Really?” asked Methaglyn. “How delightfully unexpected!”

“My grampa used to say, ‘When the weather’s good and the sun’s in the sky, the happiest farmer’s a busy guy.’ I always thought he meant keeping busy’s the best way to keep out of trouble.”

Methaglyn straightened and extended his hand formally. Hiram balked. “No trick. To seal the deal, Hiram,” the wizard explained. Henley reached over, as they eyed each other cautiously. “Meet me here tomorrow morning, if you’re not too busy. I’ll walk you back to my home, and we’ll go over a few things.”

The next day, Hiram arrived early. Soon thereafter, Methaglyn appeared at the top of a small bare hill with the dawn bursting behind him. He looked like he was stepping out of the sun. The two hiked into the shade of a small valley where the wizard’s house appeared to be built entirely out of carved stone.

“At least I won’t have to worry about burning the place down,” joked Hiram.

“It’s a little cool on rainy evenings,” admitted the wizard defensively, “but I find it warms up plenty in the sunshine.”

“Can it talk?” asked Hiram.

“Funny question. I never saw the need,” said Methaglyn, furrowing his brows.

“I thought the point of magic was to — I don’t know — make a better life than we have in the village.”

“Yes, of course,” said Methaglyn. “The rooster talks, but he’s a bit of a nag. And the grandfather clock in the dining room likes to play chess, but you have to move the pieces for him. The well never runs dry. And the windows and doors close on their own when it gets dark.”

“Speaking of getting dark,” said Hiram, “you should probably be going so you can get home before late.”

Methaglyn smiled. It was not a warm smile. It was a combination of careful what you ask for and I wish there were another option, but there isn’t. “Step inside for me, Hiram, please. You will, of course, have to stay in the house until I return. Like I said, it’s a dizzying experience to the uninitiated, but the house will look after you. I imagine it will treat you like you own the place.”

Hiram stepped across the threshold. His head immediately began to throb and his knees to buckle. When he turned around to steady himself with the doorframe and say farewell, the wizard had already vanished, and Hiram was wearing a now-familiar long purple robe. “As easy as that?” he asked nobody. “Don’t rush back, Wizard Man,” Hiram continued in a low tone. “Me and the clock and the rooster got some chitchatting to do.”

At dusk, Methaglyn reappeared, riding in a borrowed dark-red two-wheeled cart pulled by a gray mare. He was worn out from his travels, from the excitement, from the tests. But he had prevailed. Leaving his magic abilities behind had been a stroke of genius. He had not been challenged, as he surely would have been otherwise, and he had, in fact, been acknowledged and respected for collecting and preserving the wisdom of the great minds who had come before him.

The first thing he noticed: the former opening for the front door was now only a small round hole, barely big enough to shove one’s head through. Oh, and the other windows were gone, as if they had never existed. His home was an uninviting stone fortress.

Methaglyn stepped down. He gently stroked the horse’s neck, which was damp with sweat, using the time to adjust to the unexpected changes. “Thank you, Bucephalus. You may go. Send your master my gratitude. And tell him I look forward to his visit.”

The horse snorted, nodded its proud head, and left the way it had come.

The wizard stepped cautiously forward. He wondered if the changes inside the home were as dramatic as the changes outside.

A familiar head peered out the porthole (for that’s what it was). “You’re close enough,” said Hiram.

“Hiram, what have you done?”

“After you left, I was bored and lonely, so I had a long talk with the rooster and the clock and the house. True, the house doesn’t talk back, but it’s a very good listener, as it turns out. They all felt underappreciated, to be honest.”

“Are you planning on staying?”

“For a while, at least until I get good at this wizarding thing,” said Hiram. “I looked at some of your books — Don’t worry, I haven’t hurt them — and it’s like trying to read another language. The pictures help.”

“After the day I had,” said Methaglyn, “meeting some of the greatest minds of our time. They were so embracing of a new voice, a new perspective, so collaborative. I started to think, on the ride home, that all the world was like that, but then you’ve proven my original point.”

“That anyone can learn magic?”

“That when given an opportunity to steal something precious, without risk of penalty, people cannot help themselves.”

“You don’t have many friends, do you?” said Hiram. “If you haven’t guessed, I’m staying. Maybe you can still climb a hill and call out for the horse.”

“Hiram, your time here is just about over,” explained the wizard, glancing at the darkening sky.

“You’re not listening,” said Hiram, louder now, less confident, yet wanting desperately to project the image of a man certain of his power and influence.

Methaglyn stepped forward as if the future was a personal friend, someone he could trust to have his back.

“I wouldn’t,” said Hiram. “I’m warning you.”

Methaglyn stopped. “It’s getting dark. I’m cold. I just want to climb into my bed and dream of a better world. I’m coming in. You see, when you’re as paranoid as I am, even if you are painfully slow to make friends, you are always planning a series of responses to dreaded, fatalistic conflicts. What’s the worst that can happen? How can I respond to triumph over this particular adversity? In this case, my generous donation to your pitiable cause was a temporary one: until nightfall. Then the essence returns to me.”

With a gentle groan, the door resumed its normal size. The windows reappeared. The purple robe returned to its original owner.

Methaglyn wrapped his arms tightly across his chest. “Sometimes, it’s good to be me.”

Hiram knew the game was lost. He backed away from the primitive dwelling like he expected it to swallow him. “It was an ugly house anyhow,” he said.

“Thank you for your help,” said Methaglyn, striding across the threshold.

“What about the potion to get the girl?” asked Hiram. “My time is worth something.”

Methaglyn considered a moment. “Clearly you and magic do not agree with one another. However, in future, you are free to nap under any tree whenever you like.”

“I know I sort of burned a bridge, but I have one favor. It’s a small one. I think I earned it.”

“Speak.”

“The clock was teaching me chess. He’s pretty smart, always thinks five moves ahead. Can I come back, now and again, and have another lesson? It was fun and, as it turns out, it could be useful.”

“Come back any time,” responded Methaglyn generously, “but not too early and only for a couple of hours at a stretch. Maybe the experience will be good for both of us.”

And so began Methaglyn’s détente with the world at large.