Beggledert: The Sorcerers

Prologue

A wild spring storm is brewing. Icy wind gusts chase restless rain in half of the sky and presage more than mere echoes of thunder and a deluge. I will keep my family safe. Turning away from the window, I glimpse furrowed brows over worried green eyes, and an overgrown beard, in an old mirror on the study wall. Exiling my reflection with a nod, I gaze again at twilight beyond my window.

Mind to quill, quill to parchment, I write.

This eve’s clouded twilight is the backdrop for something wicked slouching toward my Beggledert. On the north horizon, deadly white fingernails of lightning are raking towering black clouds, so tall that I imagine their peaks disappearing from sight on earth and reappearing in heaven. Every few minutes, the clouds halt and hover over terrain. Haunting the clouds is an omen of woeful weeping.

Does anyone else hear it? The weeping is at a level of sorcery that I know not all can perceive.

My Beggledert: Villagers are richly diverse descendants of post-war settlers who founded the village five hundred years ago. The founders united to live in peace. Now, like a mural layered with colors, distinct and blended, we are the many within the one.

Twilight in Beggledert is renowned for the beauty of huge twinkling stars in a dark caerulean corridor between day and night–and it is imbued with magic. Sorcery lights candles to welcome the intimacy of dusk or extinguishes flames in the ritual of greeting dawn.

It is not unusual to hear echoes in the wind of neighbors debating the best spell to cure a pet dragon’s cold, or affirming which flip of the wrist nuance conjures up the tastiest Beggledert Stew.

At this moment, candles are flaring on the windowsills of cozy thatch and stone cottages, relit by magic when the wind extinguishes them. Ah, and a large number of neighborly debates stir in the wind.

I plague myself with more questions, though I know the answers. They are buried deep down, lying restlessly with old nightmares. What mystery is encroaching fast, riding the spring wind? What invasion is closing in on my little village of cheerful sorcerers with their love of pet dragons and Beggledert Stew?

My journal thoughts pause; writing stops. The blue feathered quill waits in air above parchment.

Downstairs, I hear sounds of home. My love is chastising our two terrors—spirited boys, six and twelve. I remind myself that when I see my rambunctious duo, I must not be fooled by their practiced pouts of innocence.

She had returned from outside with a basket of fresh fruit from the apple and pear trees to find her favorite pottery broken in the drawing room, the casualty of an egregious playing of Hoodman Blind.

In the game, one person is designated as “It” and blinded by a hood draped over the head. The blind gamer frantically runs around, trying to catch a new victim. Any person caught becomes “It” and is hooded. The game is also called Blind Man’s Bluff. I taught it to them.

Ah, an “inside the cottage etiquette lesson” is finally done. Contrite, the children clean up their mess, then rush to their mother for forgiveness hugs.

“Octavius,” my Andraeya calls, “we’re ready for dinner.” She and the children are setting the table in the kitchen near the inglenook fireplace with a roaring fire to extrude the unexpected spring chill. “Are you up there journaling, again?”

Andraeya is Master Wizard and time traveler, mom and wife.

The boys laugh as they scurry to seats at the oak table. They hear the familiar irritation in their mother’s voice, but not for them this time. I mumble an answer that drifts downstairs. My primary focus is on assuring their protection. To save loved ones in the future, we must understand the past. Writing and understanding our history precedes strategy.

I will do whatever it takes to keep my family safe.

Sudden rhythmic, warm winds from the half opened window ruffle the barbs of my feathered quill pen. My newest child, a baby dragon from an enormous pair of thoroughbreds, peers from the evening sky, proud to show Father that she found her wings. Her breaths are winds and sometimes fire. Last week, she terrified us both when inadvertently singeing my long beard. We recovered. I smile and wink. She shoots into the inclement sky to discover the night.

Still, my pen hovers in the air without the touch of hands. The stir of the feather barbs feels like a cue to finish the evening’s journaling. Witnessing and writing are sacred duties, honors of lineage passed down from my treasured mother and her revered father.

I barely hear: “Octavius, we will start without you. The children are starving.” They are always starving.

My journal thoughts flow again, further describing life in my beloved village.

Throughout the day and night in Beggledert, horse-drawn carriages and carts preserve a sense of quaintness, though omnipresent libraries exhibit exquisite drawings of vintage, horseless wheel and axle transports rumored to rival sorcery.

Librarians never fail to attract loyal legions.

Teahouse owners are also revered. At three o’clock every afternoon, the bustling commerce of village life stops for an hour. It is time for our beloved cream tea, in teahouses or homes. Even on days of worship, this hour is a tradition.

Cups of tea are surrounded by savories and sweets. Dishes tease appetites with panecillos and scones waiting for clotted cream and jam. For villagers who fancy something stronger than tea to wet their whistles, draughts of ale or Port accompany the miniature feasts but are enjoyed only after honoring the ceremonial cuppas.

On occasion, a teahouse host is shocked by the need to lecture a newcomer on cream tea.

“What on earth are you doing with your scone, mate? Everybody knows, first you layer your scone halves with strawberry jam, then you dollop the jam with clotted cream. Oh, Lord, not the reverse.”

Only a non-Begglederter would need the Cream Tea Lesson. Our babies are brought to tea before they cut their first teeth. However, all village visitors are welcome, even when arriving without social graces. Guests can find hospitable, comfortable lodging at the ÓSíorán Inn.

“Octavius,” my diligent lady of the manor calls, but I do not hear everything she says. My history-mapping has become intense.

The ÓSíoráns have managed the village’s only inn for over two centuries. Elrod ÓSíorán and his life partner Oni Kamali Els, the current proprietors, deliver hearth-and-home coziness to dignitaries and equally to those who are down on their luck. Lodging for the latter is a Beggledert Humanitarian Council largesse.

All of this sounds suspiciously sweet, but like the jam dolloped by clotted cream, sweet is an aspect of our traditions, and it is guileless.

I fear that our twilight beauty and rituals, traditions trademark, and aged peace are about to be threatened.

My cherished blue quill pen stops again as I watch for cumulonimbus signs to confirm my presentiments. It stands at-the-ready.

Floating over the threshold of my study door is a resplendent tray.

Did my love tell me it was coming?

The food is steaming and fills the room with smells of stew and yeast bread, pastries, and family. The tray nestles itself near folds of parchment on my desk.

I smile at my beauty and children in a picture: Andraeya, Matteo, and Regis. I resolve to leave my worries, in a few more minutes, and wrap myself in their love.

I am ready to finish penning culture history tinged with premonitions, written on parchment spilling from desk to floor. Parchment flows over gold and red rugs, crowds earth-toned pottery, and floods islands of antique spell-locked chests.

Annals of love and war for generations lay before me in those chests. More hide in coastal caverns protected by fire-breathing guards. The dragons will not hesitate to violate trespassers or rush to welcome prodigals who charm them with Old World commands conjured by The Ancestors.

Tonight, I dread that my journaling will serve as prologue for an imminent war. My ancestors witnessed this weeping storm omen before. My parents first told me of it in a fairytale. The battles that followed the omen were epic and catastrophic.

Blessed are The Ancestors. Most died in The Great War, sacrificed themselves that We might live.

With my nod, heavy wooden lids flip open. Then, unexpectedly, warm arms embrace me from behind. Andraeya. I am surprised at how easily I am startled. Dragon-riders should never be startled.

Andraeya. I will do anything to keep this woman and our children safe.

I send my final words for the night to my faithful quill.

Upon the memories of the spilled blood of The Ancestors, I swear: I will be ready for the war we hoped would never come, ready for The Blood Sorcerer’s Return.

– Octavius Emeric Gaultier CXX-IX

My quill pen rests in its inkwell.

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