The Florentrottle Wand

The King bowed his head as he walked into the small wooden house belonging to the Nymph Wizard.  The Nymph Wizard was a strange creature.  The thing was, it could not be determined whether he was a Nymph or a Wizard.  He claimed to be both, but most people said that was impossible.  The King himself had never laid eyes upon the famous conjurer; he had only heard stories.  However, the people greatly respected him, and he had advised his brother on many occasions.1

The King was young.  He had a small moustache and blonde hair that fell with a part.  His brown, olive-shaped eyes were wide, and he was cloaked in red and green clothing.  He had only taken a small dagger with him on his venture, though the forest was full of dangerous creatures.2

“Hello?” he coughed.  His voice echoed through the hollow Gerphymus Tree.  (Gerphymus Trees live in Raven’s Swamp and grow up to six feet high and twenty-five feet thick.  They are ideal for small, water-and/or-forest-dwelling creatures, and are shaped like giant mushrooms.)  He brushed his finger along one of the shelves that covered the circular walls of the cavern.  It came off covered in purple and orange dust.  He blinked and quickly wiped it onto a leaf hanging just outside behind him.  “I apologize for letting myself in, but your door seems to be missing....” he ventured.3

“Oh, that’s quite alright,” answered an eerily raspy voice from the back of the room.  A small figure, about one foot high wandered into the blue light seeping in through the door around the King.  He had a beard that dragged along behind him, but the he couldn’t quite see how long it was.  He wore an indigo robe with bronze stars on it and a matching pointy hat.  He raised his chin to gaze up at the face of the intruder, and nodded.  “It would be quite an art to be able to knock on vines.... King Florentrottle!  What a pleasure it is,” -here he paused to perform a brief bow- “but of course, I am unsurprised.  Your brother, as you presumed, was able to bring me the message of your departure for you venture here.  He said you were rather riled up about something or another, jittery, insecure, perhaps...?”4

The King smiled weakly, stabilizing his step in an embarrassed way.  He should not have expected the imp not to be forward, but that was almost rude.  He was an advisor, so he didn;t mention anything, but in his mind, he was comparing the creature to a tree stump with a beard and a pointy hat.  “Yes.  I have gained, lets say, contacts... with a group of... rebellious people.”5

“Ah.” The Nymph Wizard raised his eyebrows.  “An old but ever-interesting story.  Please sit, you’ll get a... what do you call it? a cricket in your neck, is it?”6

“A crick.” the King corrected, suppressing laughter.  He crouched down and allowed himself to fall slowly into a sitting position.  He wondered how he should sit; cross-legged was too childish, legs straight was too dorky, knees bent to the side was too woman-like.  He settle on a pose with on leg bent with the knee toward the ceiling and the other tucked beneath it.7

“Would you like some tea?” the creature inquired, scuffling toward a small, blue counter on one side of the room.  At this point, the King could see the full length of the Nymph Wizard‘s beard.  It dragged along behind him for about five feet, and was all purest white.  “I have a three-inch teacup that you could drink from.  I myself need just a one-inch,” he added.8

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” the young man sighed.   The floor was dank and sodden soil, and moisture was seeping through his pants.  He was getting rather sick of dirt; he had been covered in it for the week that he’d been gone from the palace.  Tea would help to warm him up, seeing as the rash December wind was not helping, either.9

The Nymph Wizard smiled.  “Sryngle Tree Tea is my specialty.  The Nymphs love to make it, and that is where I was taught. My mother was a Nymph; my father was a Wizard.  I am the Nymph Wizard.  Did you know that Sryngle Tree Tea is the only kind of tea served cold?  Rather appropriate; Nymphs are immune to it.  Cold, I mean.”10

He handed the King his cup, who winced at its temperature.  “You don’t feel cold?”11

“We do not feel cold,” the Nymph Wizard repeated cheerily.  “We are either content or hot. Useful in the winter, but perfectly frightful in the summertime.  That's why I reside in this bug-infested bog.  The don’t like the stench of the Gerphymus, fortunately, and keep out.  The shade is remarkable, and there is a field not too far away where yellow sunshine comes ‘round.  Here, it is only green.”12

The King sipped his tea despite its inhospitable temperature.  He was enawed by the ceiling, which had just caught his eye.  It was carved into the shapes of  all sorts of things.  Spells were illustrated in ways he'd never seen before, and he recognized the faces of his worlds most creditable people and kings.  Battles had been laid out before the beholder’s eyes, almost like a timeline of the kingdom’s past. “Who carved that?” wondered softly.  “Its incredible.  I thought the palace works of art were accurate and beauteous, but this tops every painting or tapestry my home holds.”13

“My sister crafted it,” the Nymph Wizard explained.  “many years ago.  She used every star in the sky and used my ceiling as a map of the constellations she concocted.  She used to live here with me.  That was before she went West and never came back.”14

“I’m sorry,” the King said.  “She had an amazing talent.”15

There was an odd moment of silence where they both wondered why the King was there.16

“You need control, do you?” the Nymph Wizard finally rasped.  He smiled.  “I have just the thing.  It was made by a King of five-hundred years ago, and when he passed on, my family has kept it safe since then.  The Wizard side,” he added.  His voice had grown serious and eerie, suggesting darkness at play and foreboding the danger of whatever weapon he spoke of.  His large, black eyes flicked toward a shelf in the back, with the darkest shadows that he had emerged from when the King had arrived.  “It started the Golden Age, and ended it.”17

The King knew he spoke of the coming of the Spartian War, fresh in ending, having lasted all of those five-hundred years. 18

“Yes,” the King said firmly.  Inside, his stomach writhed in dread of the security he seeked.  “I need to make the people see.”19

“See what?” the Nymph Wizard tested.  His eyes were upon the Kings face again.20

“See the good in me.  The wisdom.  They do not trust me. If they do not trust me, I have no control.  Punishment for disloyalty would only arouse more protests.”21

The Nymph Wizard sighed.  “Very well, then.”22

He teetered back into the shadows.  Without a sound he emerged just a few seconds later.  His face bore a wincing dread, and his hand bore a long, slim box, almost as tall as he was.  He placed it on the floor at the King’s feet.23

“I trust you,” the Nymph Wizard said, bowing.  “You drank my bitter, cold tea without complaint.  I know how it tastes to humans.  Every King before you who has come to me has said something about it, particularly in the depth of winter...!  Apologies for the inconvenience.  You have proven yourself not to be cocky or spoiled, and eager to bear anything to keep the people from revolting.  I can see in your eyes that it is not you that you fear they will hurt, but each other in the process.” 24

The Nymph Wizard stood, failing to look majestic or wise at a glance, but the King knew better.  “I fear that is not something tea can tell.  I will not let you down,” he declared, and when the Nymph Wizard did not answer, he stood, package in hand.  “Good day, my friend.”25

With that, he pushed aside the vines cloaking the imp’s doorway, and stepped into Raven’s Swamp’s green light.  He mounted his white horse, and with only a glance back at the Gerphymus Tree, he whispered “Let’s go, Ceasar,” and was homeward bound.26