The Staff of the Magi (standard:fantasy, 2172 words)
Author: Alexm	Added: May 11 2003	Views/Reads: 3401/2273	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A prehistoric tale in which an elderley shaman tells his young protege of an encounter with a fire spirit and how the spirit becomes a reluctant ally

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

audience, the Druid again took up the thread of his narrative: 

“For several days I crossed the gentler slopes with trepidation, until
it began to seem as if my troubles were truly behind me. The ominous, 
smoke-wreathed crowns were far distant and there, at the lower 
altitudes, vegetation was lush and food plentiful. Pine, cedar and 
birch cast long shadows amongst a carpet of fern and lily, orchid and 
flowering mimosa. Exotic birds there were, in a bewildering diversity 
of colour and kind. What is more, those climes were shunned by men and 
much did I appreciate the days spent without fear of hostile encounter, 
such as plagued my outward journey. 

Then, one morning, I was awakened by a low rumbling from deep within the
bowels of the mountain. Rising swiftly, I was hurled back to the ground 
as it shook beneath my feet. As I struggled again to stand, there was a 
mighty roar and the top of the mountain burst asunder – spewing smoke 
and liquid fire. I envied the flocks of birds as they took flight from 
the trembling treetops. I began to run as a burning rain fell from the 
dark and reeking clouds that were rolling down from above. Time and 
again I fell, but terror hauled me up and pulled me on. With a sound 
that shook the very sky, great wounds gaped open in the earth and vast 
tracts of the mountainside slid down them into smoking ruin. Without 
pausing in my flight, I prayed to the Earth Lords for mercy – though it 
seemed impossible that they would hear me amongst the chaos and din. 
Everywhere was aflame and the fire spirits rejoiced amid the 
destruction. Down the slope they came, their crackling mirth fuelled by 
anything and everything in their path. Like fountains they poured 
through rents in the ground. Trees blazed like giant torches as they 
leaped from branch to branch. Glowing seeds, showered over the heath, 
yielded fields of flowering orange flame. 

I was tiring fast, for I was not a young man even then. Beneath me, the
mountainside rippled and I was running as if through water. Bearing 
down on me, I could hear the harsh voices from the furnace and the 
choking heat of its breath filled my chest. Through the turmoil of my 
mind, the fire spirits called out to me: 

“We hunger, we hunger. You cannot escape us. Feed us. Feed us!” At that
moment, through the stinging smoke, I spied up ahead a jutting shelf of 
rock. It was free from flame and appeared to be holding firm amidst the 
surrounding upheaval. With a final effort, I staggered toward it. 
Glancing round, I saw that I was close beset. One of the sprites, 
stronger and more vigorous than his brothers, was almost upon me. 

“You are mine, feeble one,” he taunted “feel the warmth of my embrace.
Feel your blood begin to boil, your bones to crack, your flesh to 
waste.” His smoking fingers plucking at the hem of my robe, I stumbled 
out onto the shelf and felt its cool, solid reassurance beneath my 
blistering feet. I turned to face my pursuer. In his lust for 
sustenance, he had followed me onto the smooth rock. There was no 
vegetation here other than a few, dark mosses and already the foolish 
sprite was beginning to diminish. It was my turn to gloat: 

“What now, my impetuous friend? Does thy hunger grow even as thy
strength wanes?” Though visibly weaker by the moment, his arrogance 
still smouldered: “I shall singe your beard yet, feeble one” he spat, 
dancing closer. I merely took a pace backward, easily avoiding his 
grasp. “I think not.” I replied “Your greed is your undoing this time, 
I fear.” 

From that haven in the midst of the burning, I watched as the Gorian
dwindled and faded. Upon either side, rivers of molten rock spilled 
down the thundering mountain and the dying sprite stared in anguish at 
his brothers who leapt and pranced beyond his reach. Finally, little 
more than a flicker above the stone at my feet, he began to implore me: 
“Pity father, for I am doomed. Forgive my hot and hasty words. Permit 
me not so mean an end, pity father – grant your aid” 

And I pitied him. Of all the elemental spirits, the Gorians are probably
those least endowed with endurance and cunning and, though destructive 
at times, they are not wilfully evil. They are merely slaves to their 
own natures  - which, I suppose, is something that could be said of all 
of us. So I offered him my wooden staff and gratefully he clung to the 
furthest tip. Firmly I warned that if he should attempt to climb the 
shaft and menace me anew, I would let him fall, to burn out upon the 
cold stone. 

Thus we waited on that rocky spur, whilst the fires raged long into the
night. By dawn the Earth Gods' fury was spent and a calm had settled 
over the mountain. As a grey light filtered through the clouds of smoke 
and ash, I stepped out onto the scorched and blighted earth. “Well, it 
is over.” I told the fire spirit, who smouldered still at the end of my 
staff. “Be off and join your brethren, in slumber once again beneath 
the hill.” Nimbly, my companion descended and hastened over to one of 
the many jagged fissures that now scarred that place. Before he slipped 
away however, he turned to me saying: “I shall not forget thy mercy 
father and, in times to come, I will answer your summons – wherever you 
may be. By that stick I will know thee!” With that pledge he was gone. 
I turned my face eastward once again and, picking my way down the 
shattered hillside, alighted once more upon Ith's unchanging plain.” 
Finishing his tale, the Druid cast a wistful glance over the moor. 
“Another thing I'll tell you lad,” he added “I have never been so glad 
to set foot in this dismal, Godforsaken place as I was that day – of 
that you may be certain!” 

Amudan, though much delighted with the story, wore a puzzled frown.
“Why, “ he asked “ when it is such a simple matter for you to make 
fire, do you watch me fumble with flint and tinder until we're passing 
out from hunger?” “Forgive me!” The Druid arched his brows and spread 
one long-fingered hand on his narrow chest in mock dismay. “I was not 
aware that I have been keeping you from more important matters!” Amudan 
instantly regretted the question and opened his mouth to recant – but 
his guardian silenced him with a quick gesture. “Believe me when I tell 
you boy, there is little in this world of more value than the knowledge 
of fire. I will not always be around to mother you and, like an old 
fool, spoil you with idle trickery. Now begone and leave me in peace..” 
The Druid made dismissive motions with one scrawny arm but then, with a 
grin and a characteristic wink he added: “ ..but don't stray too far 
and mind your back ere nightfall. The moor is a perilous place after 
dark.” 

Stiff from sitting on the damp ground, Amudan stretched his legs with a
bounding run, westward, away from the camp. In one hand he clutched a 
dead branch, gleaned especially from the firewood store. Without 
slowing, he stripped off the smaller twigs until he had a straight, 
slender wand – his own flame-stick. 

The afternoon wore on. Across the deepening skies, birds were flying
home to their secluded roosts and upon the plain below, the boy's 
shadow lengthened in the grass as he leapt and feinted and struck. A 
wind arose in fitful gusts that bore the kiss of night, but Amudan paid 
it no mind. He was in another world. A world where the spirits of the 
wild clawed at him with taloned fingers and he fought valiantly to keep 
them at bay. Again they came at him and again he drove them back. The 
flame-stick danced in his hands; showering sparks, spilling rivers of 
glowing crimson, setting the fields of his imagination alight with 
lambent flame. 


Tweet