OLWIZCOMYR
All Wizards Come Here
Chapter 3
The crowd had slowly grown bigger around Maa’s statue. Almost two hundred people now surrounded eight men, nine women and one young boy. These eighteen people were all wearing the same special suit covering them from toe to neck. This was the suit Clovis had dreamt about wearing rather than going strolling on the other side of the Hedge. This was the only suit capable of trapping the Fabulous Dust.
The young boy also had a small bag in his back. This bag contained a treasure as invaluable than the Dust itself. Indeed, it was during the Day of the Fabulous Dust that the archives regarding all the maginstruments were brought down and stored in the basement of the Castle of Spell. These archives were filed with everything that needed to be known on each maginstrument. Such as the date at which each maginstrument had been pull out of the nothingness during the previous fifteen years, the names of those who had done it, all the results of all the tests. And of course the names of the wizards who had commissioned and received them. Those were but only few of the data stored in the archives that one of the eighteen elected ones would bring down.
If the bag containing these documents was so small it was because they were brought down the basement completely dried out. Once there, the documents would slowly go back to their normal size by absorbing the air humidity, a precaution that would also keep the basement dry! The archives would then sit there, forever untouched since no sorcerer had ever come back to Olwizcomyr to complain about one maginstrument. And surely no Olwzicomirian even imagined one sorcerer would come one day to do so. There were two certainties in this world. The first was that the maginstruments of Olwizcomyr were absolutely flawless. Nobody agreed on the second.
The basement of the Castle of Spell was the memory of the maginstruments and it was no doubt the most invaluable basement in the world!
The sun was still bright high in the sky when Jasmina Korrigan, the most senior citizen, rang the beginning of the ceremony. Despite her ninety-nine years and her face like a crumpled ball of paper, Jasmine was still safe and sound. And her voice still carried!
A young, but already chubby, woman signaled to Jasmine to sit down of the armchair she presented her. But, as she had done fifteen years before, Jasmina obstinately refused and the armchair along with Clara, the woman who was Jasmine’s own great grand-daughter, were sent back.
Clara sighed and muttered few words while raising her eyes to the sky.
Jasmine, however, accepted with relief and a big smile, the freshness provided by the shadow of a parasol that John, Clara’s boyfriend, placed behind her. Then she raised her hand to signal she was about to speak.
‘My friends, here we are! Today, once again, those, men and women, who had been elected, will have the responsibility to harvest the precious Dust. If I am to believe Berthold, this harvest will be the ninety-ninth in the history of Olwizcomyr. And for the nineteen ones, it will be a great honor. And it will also be a good deal for us!’ she whispered impishly while turning to Boniface Vivant, the mayor who was campaigning for his reelection.
‘What? Oh yes! Yes. A good deal. Yes, yes. Don’t forget to vote for me,’ Boniface answered while biting his nails.
Jasmine raised her eyes to the sky. Boniface was the ONLY candidate running for the election! Who would have wanted his position anyway? So Jasmine went on.
‘The eighteen ones,’ she said pointing toward the statue, ‘will repeat what Maa Ra Jik, our beloved inspiration, accomplished when the art of wizardry was still in its infancy.’
‘Pff! Every fifteen years it’s the same speech,’ a young boy with blond hair whispered to his neighbor, a young girl who was staring at the youngest of the eighteen ones.
‘Are you kidding, Fergus? You were not even born last time!’ the young girl snapped.
‘I might have not been born,’ Fergus admitted, ‘but don’t forget that my father is the Master of the Grimoires. And he has been writing the speeches for Jasmina for a long time now!’
Fergus was certain this would impress the young girl whose name was Hortence.
‘I rather believe you’re simply jealous of Stanislas. Look at him. He is not even thirteen and he was chosen. How lucky he is! Can you believe it? His name will be on the board of Olwizcomyr forever. He’s going to see the basement of the castle. And he is so cute.’
‘And then what!’ Fergus answered. ‘In his suit, he looks more like a frog to me. He surely will have to jump to collect the Dust on the ceiling.’
‘Very funny, really!’ Hortence said. ‘Listen instead of talking nonsense.’
Jasmine was now talking directly to the young Stanislas who was red of confusion.
‘Maa Ra Jik was barely older than you when she discovered the powers of the golden Dust that accumulates inside the Castle of Spell. This castle that the youngest amongst you call the Office of Bawling.’
‘Non…Yes madam,’ the boy stammered.
A laugh rose from the crowd. The Castle of Spell got this nickname because this was where all sorcerers and other enchantress could come to complain about a defect in one of the maginstruments they had received in Olwizcomyr. But as far as one could remember, nobody had ever complained. The reputation of Olwizcomyr was still spotless. And the Dust was accumulating there like nowhere else in the village.
Along the centuries, the harvest had been optimized and a fifteen years delay between each round was giving the most fantasmagistic Dust. Since then, all the wizards of the planet were coming to Olwizcomyr to get some of it. When they could afford it of course and only with the permission of the ‘Thingamajig’.
‘Jasmine forgets to say…,’ Fergus started.
But he was interrupted by one of the spectators who asked him to speak less loud and to pay attention to the ceremony.
‘The eldest forgets to say that before being famous, Maa had been punished for entering the Office of Brawling with any permission,’ Fergus whispered while glancing at Hortence.
‘And how do you know that?’ she asked, her curiosity roused.
‘I had the time to have a look at the book my father used to write Jasmine’s speech,’ Fergus answered, all too happy to get his pretty friend’s attention at last. ‘It’s one of his bedtime books. But, hush, don’t say a single word of this to anybody or I’ll be in big trouble.’
‘And how did Maa discover the powers of the Dust?’ Hortence asked.
Fergus took a look at the man who had complained just a moment ago then moved few meters away and signaled to Hortence to follow him.
‘A discovery? You can say that again!’ Fergus said when Hortence had joined him. ‘I could have done the same, really.’
‘What do you mean? I rather believe you’re only bragging,’ she told him just to encourage him say more.
‘Surely not!’ Fergus said. ‘Maa was coming out of the Office of Brawling and she sneezed because of the dust. Some of this dust fell on Eryn O’Goblin an Irish sorcerer who was coming out of the Steamy Potion. While dusting himself, Eryn simply muttered few rude words and a little bit of the dust fell back on Maa. But this time the dust had become the Fabulous Dust. It was enough to make Maa’s hair disappear. Maa Ra Jik was bald! And she probably didn’t look like her statue at all.’
‘You’re pushing things a little bit too far. Show a little bit of respect,’ Hortence answered with mischief. ‘Let’s go and join the others.’
The crowd was now waiting to drink the glass of the harvest. It was time for Jasmine to finish her speech. The eighteen ones were ready to walk to the Castle of Spell. They would spend several hours there, visiting the eighteen rooms, collecting each and every gram of the fabulous Dust thanks to their suits designed especially for this occasion.
‘Let’s raise our glass to the heroes of the day!’ Jasmine declared. ‘To finish, and before you leave, let me remind you the ritual precautions of the harvest:
Be as light as a feather from Hector Plasm, precise as a watch from Dick lock and most of all, leave Alanis Neeze on the door mat!’
A little bit in the background was Frederic Farewell, a man in his prime. His black hair, strewed here and there with white streaks, was tied in a pigtail hanging in his back between his broad shoulders.
His face was square with a large mouth and a straight nose. His eyes were almost as black as his hair even though his look was a very reassuring one.
Even if he was resting on a walking stick, Frederic Farewell was the image of solidity. He had been recently recognized as the Referee of the Masters of Olwizcomyr. He was still uncomfortable as judged by the way he was sliding his finger between his neck and the collar of his ceremony suit to ease his breath.
While Frederic Farewell had listened with a very absent-minded ear to Jasmina’s speech he had already heard twice before, a young man with very short dark hair and with no mustache forced his way through the crowd and joined him. Clovis had just returned from the bad side of the Hedge. What he whispered in Farewell’s ear was considered important enough for the Referee to leave on the spot and follow Clovis.
Jasmine watched them going away with a thoughtful look and got back to business. The eighteen ones were going away too but in the opposite direction, to the Castle of Spell where their task was waiting to be fulfilled.
Farewell and Clovis went down the Fuzzy-Spell Avenue that ultimately led to the Tower of Decisions.
‘I see with pleasure that you have quickly forgotten the deception of this afternoon,’ Farewell said to Clovis who had seemed so down when he had learnt he would not be amongst the eighteen ones.
‘It’s true! But I brought back is worth much more than any kind of dust, even the Fabulous Dust from the Castle of Spell. Mark my word!’ Clovis claimed.
‘I believe you,’ said Farewell. ‘Who knows, one day you might even get your own street somewhere in Olwizcomyr. But maybe you could tell me what you did find now.’
‘You would not believe me,’ said Clovis. ‘You have to see for yourself. I think you were finally right saying this day would bring me a surprise bigger than the one who consisted in cleaning a very old and dusty house. Even if I know you were only trying to comfort me.’
‘I am glad I was helpful but I was merely mentioning what Sidonie had read in her astrology books. And I don’t remember calling the Castle of Spell ‘‘a old and dusty house’’’, Farewell corrected.
Several years later, as prophesized by Farewell, one of the streets of Olwizcomyr, Little Circles Street, was renamed Clovis Street.
When they reached the Tower of Decisions, Clovis was so impatient that he rushed inside. He realised just a little bit too late it was a bad idea. He didn’t pay enough attention to the prickling that went through his body just at this moment.
He had barely put his foot on the purple slabs covering the ground of the entrance hall that two arms coming out of the door appeared suddenly and stopped Clovis on the spot.
‘Blimey! I am stuck,’ he cried when the two arms lift him off the ground.
His feet and his thin legs were hopelessly kicking in the air.
‘My dear Clovis! That won’t get you anywhere,’ sighed Farewell who had just arrived. ‘How many times have I told you not to rush headlong inside this way? You can consider yourself lucky. The fingers could have closed on your neck!’
Clovis was still struggling like a little devil, copiously insulting this door that was acting on its own will. But it was to no avail, the bronze fingers were simply too strong for him.
‘The more you fight the more the arms will fasten,’ Farewell said. ‘And if you insult them in addition, you might well stay stuck like this until the next Day of the Fabulous Dust.’
‘I think I will need you help to set me free form this sticking door,’ Clovis groaned.
Farewell put down his walking stick against the door and grabbed one of the hands holding Clovis. He pulled the metal fingers apart and one after the others the fingers gave away after a strong resistance. But even a bronze fighter was no match for the Referee. Soon Clovis was free and the arms got back to their initial place, along the body of the bronze soldier engraved in the door.
Clovis rubbed the place where the two hands had grabbed him and made some moves. Nothing was broken but he would certainly have bruises everywhere by tomorrow.
‘I should have decontaminated this sculpture long time ago,’ he complained, forgetting even to thank Farewell. ‘As soon as possible I will take care of it. There won’t be any trace of magic left there!’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it myself,’ said Farewell.
‘But, how would you do? This is my job,’ Clovis protested. ‘Where is the world going if the Referee comes to do the magiCleaner’s job! And, don’t take it personally, but you don’t have the…Gift.’
Indeed Frederic Farewell didn’t have the Gift. But Clovis did! He was even one of the best magiCleaners Olwizcomyr had come across. And he had twice the amount of work because by a very unfortunate combination of events, he was presently the only magiCleaner in the village while there had always been two and even three of them at the same time.
Clovis was responsible for the magidecontamination. It was the name he was disdainfully using to describe the elimination of any trace of magic the wizards invariably left behind them when they were coming to Olwizcomyr. Without even talking about the times they were actually casting spells!
The official name for the magiCleaner was: Trapper of highly magic crystalithes coming out from a source of the wizards’ family.
But Clovis, as all his predecessors, preferred to call himself a magiCleaner. It was shorter, easier to spell and the job was the same anyway.
The prickling to which Clovis had not paid enough attention earlier, the same prickling his grandma attributed to ghosts ants, were nothing but the way the magic traces were signaling themselves to Clovis. This was also very convenient when it came to avoid glutton-sands. But that was another story!
‘It’s quite puzzling, don’t you think?’ Clovis said.
‘What is puzzling?’
‘Well this room. I mean the Tower of Decisions. It’s one of the two places sorcerers never visit and however I would swear it’s one of the most contaminated,’ Clovis noticed.
‘If you keep on talking about magicontamination, Olwizcomyr might lose its clients,’ Farewell answered with a frown. ‘You are to say ‘magic exSpelling’ I believe. But we’ll talk about this later. Something else requires our immediate attention, doesn’t it?’
‘True, you’re right!’ Clovis agreed. ‘Come with me please. I put him in the large room. I thought you would already be back and I came directly here after coming back from the Hed…from my walk,’ explained Clovis. ‘I only found Penelope in the room of the Table of Votes.’
The hall where Farewell and Clovis were standing was indeed giving access to the room of the Table of Votes where the Masters were holding their meetings.
Clovis took care not to rush this time and let Farewell go first. Clovis didn’t want to be prisoner once again. And most of all, the Referee was to enter first.
Penelope Takis had preceded them. She was the Master of Clothes and every invisibility cloaks, hats of truth, morpho-suits for wizards who found it difficult to get invisible, the Jumpy-boots and many more magic clothes more extraordinary ones than the others, were all pull out of the nothingness under her direction.
Penelope was probably the most elegant woman one had met in Olwizcomyr for long. Her gowns, like all the clothes she wore seemed to have been designed and tailor-made for her and her only.
Her face was lost inside her luxuriant hair that was shinning with silver reflections. The ends of each of her hair were slightly moving even though there was not a single breath of wind. This was the mark of the spinners.
She was leaning on the basket, itself standing in top of the Table of Votes. She was smiling to the baby, a boy, who was sleeping sound. This was Clovis discovery.
‘Hello Frederic,’ Penelope said without raising her head. ‘Is the Celebration over already?’
‘The Celebration is till going on,’ Farewell answered without saying hello, ‘but Clovis convinced me I was more urgently needed here.’
‘I believe he was right for this time,’ Penelope said, before immediately showing Clovis she was only nagging him.
‘I found him,’ Clovis said, proud as a troll on a rainy day.
Then he took a deep breath and made him mind up to confess the most incredible part of the story. He knew without any doubt that what he was about to say would remain indefinitely in the History of Olwizcomyr. It was so amazing he thought nobody would believe him this time either. Fortunately he wasn’t a student anymore and would not have to camp at school a second time!
‘I found him on the other side of the Hedge,’ he said.
‘What?’ Frederic cried, nearly choking. ‘You omitted to tell me this. I thought you had nothing to do there today. You were maybe chasing Will-O’-the Wisp again?’
Penelope had raised her head and her hair had stopped moving. It was the sign of a big surprise. She turned to Farewell then to the baby who was smiling in his sleep. Two dimples grew on his cheeks.
‘Don’t be too harsh with him, Frederic,’ she said. ‘Clovis improved quite a lot! What did you bring back last time?’ she asked. ‘It was a joking gnome, wasn’t it?’
‘That was last year madam,’ Clovis answered. ‘It was a very young gnome, almost a baby too. It was an orphan but I found him some foster parents since. No, the last time was the termite.’
‘Oh yes! The termite. Everybody remembers the termite,’ Farewell said. ‘Fortunately for us, this animal force-fed itself to death otherwise there would not be a single wall left at the Mysteroom of the Flyers. I though Orville was to go mad. This evil creature even succeeded in eating half of the series of walking sticks Garamu, the fairy lumberjack, had offered me so graciously.’
‘At least we won’t get the same problem with him,’ Penelope said pointing to the baby. ‘At least that’s what I think. This child is only few months old, he can’t be one of us. An Olwizcomyrian would never abandon a child.’
‘And fortunately he is not a sorcerer either,’ Clovis immediately added with relief. ‘He hasn’t got any Magma. Unless it is hidden.’
The baby was still sleeping, unaware, and Clovis moved him a little bit on the side just to check. But it wasn’t necessary and he knew it well.
‘Stop it!’ Farewell said. ‘You’re going to wake him up. You know perfectly that even by magic, the sorcerers cannot hide their Magma. Even less sleep on it!’
‘So, he must be a baby from the outside,’ Clovis suggested. ‘But then I wonder how he could have cross the Hedge. Maybe he really fell from the sky. After all I clearly saw the arrow of fire before I found him.’
But it was evident the child hasn’t been through a forced landing. So Clovis, Penelope and Frederic stared at each other. Penelope was the first to speak.
‘It might seem impossible, but could this adorable baby be one of…one of them?’ she managed to say.
Farewell ground his teeth and his face grew somber for an instant. Clovis got red face and it was not of shame.
‘I looked carefully around me when I found him,‘ he said, ‘and there was nobody. It was too light anyway and everybody knows that no baby comes to birth there.’
‘And most of all, was it to happen, they would have not let the child alone. They are too much in need of people!’ Farewell concluded. ‘Did you find something else with the child?’
‘No. Her…Yes,’ Clovis stammered. Actually…
‘Yes or no?’ Penelope asked.
‘I think it’s a ‘‘yes’’,’ Clovis answered before holding out to Farewell the piece of paper he had saved from Pikpok.
‘But there is nothing on this paper,’ Farewell said. ‘It looks like it was…eaten!’
Clovis rubbed his forehead. The dreaded moment had arrived.
‘It’s because of Pikpok,’ he explained. ‘It saw the basket before me, and…I only got the time to take the piece you can see out of its mouth.’
‘Luckily for the child, Pikpok only eats paper,’ Penelope said. ‘Your strange companion might well be harmless but I wonder how you can find interest in such an ugly animal!’
‘It is indeed lucky Pikpok is only eating paper, but it’s also very unfortunate. This message could have been extremely important,’ Farewell added with a voice full of deception.
‘What are you going to do with him?’ Clovis asked with apprehension.
‘It’s a little bit to ask,’ Farewell said. ‘But if he is a child from outside as you think he is, then we might better give him back to them. He would be in better hands.’
‘I am afraid it’s not so simple,’ a tenor voice said.
All three turned to the one who had just spoken. He was a thin man, quite tall with a strict and angular wrinkled face. The top of his head was bald but he had a small red beard on his chin.
His name was Berthold Lescribe. He was the Master of the Grimoires and also, occasionally, the author of Jasmine’s speeches. He had read, according to some, all the books ever written. It was just only exaggerated. He had only read the most interesting ones.
He walked to the Table of the Votes and observed the baby with distant eyes even though he was a new grandfather himself. Two weeks earlier, his older daughter Angelina had given birth to a little girl.
‘Before we reach a decision, I have to consult the Rare Books of Law,’ Berthold reminded everybody. ‘Then only, of course, Frederic will arbitrate.’
‘I’m amazed to hear there are still books you don’t know by heart in Olwizcomyr,’ Penelope said as to joke.
But Berthold didn’t smile the least. The word ‘humour’ had mysteriously been erased from all the dictionaries he had read.
‘Fine. We will wait for you to come back and tell us what the Books of the Law say,’ Farewell decided.
‘This problem is settled for the moment then,’ Penelope said while Clovis was relieved. ‘But since Pikpok ate most of this message and what it contained, here we are with a baby whom we ignore everything including his name that no doubt was printed on the paper.’
‘Why not naming him Clovis,’ Clovis hopefully suggested.
‘Because Olwzicomir can’t afford a second one,’ Berthold replied tactless.
Then he turned to Penelope.
‘You said part of the message was left. Give it to me.’
‘Here it is,’ Farewell said.
Berthold brought the piece of paper near his protruding eyes. He sniffed it then tore a part like a stamp. He put it in his mouth and started to chew it!
‘I see,’ he said. ‘This is an eternal crêpe paper. The pine trees used to make this paper have been cut down at spring by some beavers in the Park of the Trembly Mount in Canada. The French man Jean Petitcou, prepared the paper in the Moulin de l’Arche, near Varenne in France. Given the taste, I would say Jean Petitcou had drunk a little bit too much that day!’
‘Are you’re telling us this baby is the son of an alcoholic paper-maker whose name is Jean Petitcou?’ Clovis asked, astounded.
‘I don’t know,’ said Berthold. ‘Right now I only tasted the paper. But I very much doubt it. This paper hasn’t been made since the year 1793. Envysitor year of course.’
‘And why is that so?’ Clovis asked while moving discreetly to come between the Master of the Grimoires and the baby.
No kidding, but Berthold was well capable of tasting the baby too!
‘Because in 1793, a group of sans-culottes confused Jean Petitcou with the escaping French king Louis the Sixteenth and they beheaded him. It was the Révolution and it was such a waste! I mean, for the printing industry,’ Berthold sighed.
Clovis swallowed and put his hand on his neck.
‘How many books were printed with this paper,’ asked Penelope.
‘It’s hard to tell,’ Berthold admitted. ‘I would say between thirty and thirty-two. But the message was written with a very common ball-pen and purple ink. With a little bit of chance, there is somewhere in the world a book printed by jean Petitcou, with a page missing matching the piece of paper I am holding. And with a little more luck, the page just under the one that was torn away still keeps the trace of the text that was written. If you just rub a pencil, like children are used to do when they want to send secret messages, you might well know what the words were.’
‘All this is impressive,’ Farewell said, ‘but to find a book printed more than two hundred years ago with the hope to darken one of its pages is likely to take quite a lot of time. We don’t have this time.’
‘Of course there is a much quicker and safer way,’ Berthold announced much to the surprise of his colleagues. ‘When did you find the baby?’ he asked to Clovis.
‘Less than an hour ago,’ Clovis answered suspiciously. ‘But what is the link with the message?’
‘It’s very simple really,’ Berthold said. ‘Pikpok, assuming this animal exists, didn’t have the time to digest the paper by now. You only need a sharp knife. The Drooler won’t even suffer. We get back the message and Bob’s the uncle!’
‘ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND!’ Clovis shouted.
Here was Berthold, asking him to cut in pieces an animal that was supposed to be extinct, just to get back a piece of paper. Penelope and Frederic bust in laughters
‘Berthold was just kidding,’ she said to Clovis who was still red of anger and green of disgust.
‘Yes, I was kidding,’ Berthold said flatly.
But he shook his head to say ‘no’ to Clovis. An animal that was eating only any kind of papers could not be any friend with Berthold! Actually the word ‘humour’ did exist in Berthold’s dictionary but only at the ‘very dark humour’ page.
‘Let’s Sidonie find a name for the baby,‘ Penelope said. ‘After all, she’s the most qualified for this.’
‘You’re right,’ Farewell said.
Then turning to Clovis he added:
‘You’ll come along with me to see Sidonie while Penelope will go and talk to Jasmine and Boniface.’
‘Me?’ Clovis asked.
‘Of course, you! Didn’t you find the baby?’
‘Me?’ Clovis said once again with his eyes like two marbles.
‘And whom else am I talking to? Come on, wake up!’ Farwell snapped. ‘Unless you brought something else from over there you’d like to show us. I don’t know, a unicorn with two horns, a white hairy bat, a thirteenleafed shamrock?’
‘No. Of course not,’ Clovis said. ‘A unicorn with two horns doesn’t exist.’
‘Since my skill is not required anymore, I am going,’ Berthold said. ‘But I had come here to take back a book I left on the Table of the Votes. Has someone seen it?’
‘Was it a book with golden pages, written with strange blue and red letters?’ Clovis asked, ill at ease.
‘It was written in Breton, not in strange letters,’ Berthold sighed. ‘I inherited it from Gudwal Divinon, the druid from Karnak. It’s the only book relating the History of Magic in Brittany from the first menhir to the last dart championship. This book is like the apple of my eyes.’
Clovis face had lost all of its colour and he only lift the basket where, amazingly, the baby was still sleeping. Under the basket was Berthold’s book, wide open. Berthold nearly fainted when he saw that the baby had wet his nappies and everything that was underneath. And that meant the famous History of Magic in Brittany!
‘Well done! I am proud of you,’ Clovis whispered to his nephew-to-be, after Berthold had left the room.
‘This child cannot go on like this, without real clothes,’ Penelope said.
From under her gown, she removed a square of blue material that soon took the shape of a shirt in her expert hands. Then she put her hand to her hair and one of them rolled itself around her index finger. She pulled it out and put it down on the shirt where it disappeared, as if swallowed by the clothes. Each and every of the magic clothes at Olwizcomyr carried this trademark.
‘I am not a fairy, but here is my gift for you,’ she said while leaning on the cradle.
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