… stepped forward and wrapped her in a tight hug until the sobs subsided. She wiped her eyes dry, to establish control, and looked around the magnificent room, in a palace, on a planet orbiting a pair of stars far from home. Every sorcerer stared at her as she, in turn, gazed deeply into the black eyes of each of them. Then she placed her hand over her chest in a respectful salute.

With a grin that betrayed a mixture of melancholy and happiness, in equal measures, she said, “Okay.”

Vakeva (and) the Wizard By: FH Rexroad

Vakeva wiped blood from the hunting knife with a broad leaf and, hands shaking, returned it to its sheath on her belt. Two men hurried down the dirt road toward the village of Kells—one with blood oozing from his left shoulder, the other trying to stop the flow from his right palm.

“Come, Merlin,” she said to her donkey as she patted his head to calm them both. “Let’s move on before they change their minds and return more prepared.”

Though she arrived in Ireland as an infant in her father’s arms, Vakeva, now a young woman of sixteen—give or take, she didn’t know—knew the country and its dangers well. She traversed the roads between Kells and Finnea regularly with her donkey cart, bringing news to share and goods to sell, just as her father had before his untimely death. These travels always brought memories of him, sweet memories, yes, but they also reinforced she was an orphan. She used this combination of love and loss to propel herself onward.

On this pleasant mid-summer day, the black-haired lass, had a full load of goods newly purchased from merchants in the English-ruled Pale, along with some grand gossip that would be sure to earn her a free meal at the Stallion’s Hoof in Finnea. Her eidetic memory and penchant for telling stories made her a favorite at the pubs and inns along her trade route.

With a light load and fine weather, she could make the trip from Kells to Finnea in one day. This day provided perfect traveling conditions, though her small cart was heavily ladened. She lingered at fords and pastures, justifying each stop to rest her loyal donkey, but mostly it was so she could absorb the tranquil views. A faint and indescribable feeling in the atmosphere, a sweeter than usual smell, a softer light over the pastoral countryside, a more harmonious chirping and singing of the birds, beseeched her to enjoy this trip even though she wanted to put mileage between her and the robbers.

By late afternoon, she reached the halfway mark where she contemplated making camp—a thought she couldn’t name implored her to stop for the night. She listened.

“This way, Merlin. There is a good clearing we’ve used before just through here.” She guided Merlin to a pathway leading into the woods. A few paces in, she found the clearing surrounded by a shield of trees, offering protection from the wind, a semblance of safety, and enough space for a comfortable camp.

She set camp, fed Merlin, and gathered wood and kindling before settling in for a relaxing evening. The small fire provided a comforting warmth from the chill, even summer nights in the Irish hinterlands offered. She looked up at the bright and friendly full moon as it rose. It looked new to her, as if she’d never really seen it before.

In her roadside camp, young Vakeva finished the sparse meal of bread, cheese, and a bit of dried meat she’d procured that morning before setting out from Kells. Leaning back against a tree, she gazed at the flames and wondered why she had never learned to play a musical instrument. “Now would be the perfect time to blow a lyrical melody on a bone flute or strum a whimsical tune on a lute. Would you enjoy that?” She looked at her donkey. But possessions take money and … more to carry. When I get a horse and a bigger wagon, she thought.

“But don’t worry, Merlin,” she called to her donkey as if he were hearing her thoughts. “I’ll take good care of you.” She poked the dying embers and contemplated throwing on more sticks.

“Merlin? I see someone enjoys the old mythologies.”

The voice startled Vakeva, especially after her morning encounter. She turned to the sound, ready to defend, knife already in her hand, and spied an old man standing in the path leading to the road. He looked beyond death, yet stood upright. His dress reminded Vakeva of pictures she’d seen of wealthy men bundled up for travel. Though a wealthy man would have discarded that cloak and those trousers years ago. His scraggly hair was nearly pure white and his beard, which hadn’t seen a comb in ages, was a light gray with a hint of what may have been red at one time. This decrepit soul had successfully encroached into her domain without notice. That had not happened in a long time. The two stared at each other.

“Are you and Merlin going to invite a tired old man for company, or do I need to continue my travels up the road?”

Vakeva eyed the old man and concluded at his advanced age he posed no real harm. She sheathed her knife but kept her hand on it as she spoke. “I don’t often invite unknown travelers into my camp.”

“Well, then, Miss Vakeva Gullveig, let me change the unknown into the known. I am Wenzel Voegelin.”

Vakeva tightened her fingers around the handle of her knife. “How do you know my name?”

“Our meeting was foretold to me in a vision many weeks ago as I sat by a fire, much like this one, along a lonely road in the south of England.” He motioned toward the dwindling campfire. “May I sit and warm myself?” As he spoke, the flames perked up, and the warmth increased.

Vakeva loosened the grip on her knife but didn’t relinquish it altogether. “Please do, Mr. Voegelin.” She nodded.

Wenzel staggered into the clearing with the aid of an ancient staff. He had no baggage lumbering him down as he stumbled toward her. The noise associated with his awkward movement amazed her. How could this old man have snuck up on me, walking like that?

When he managed, with considerable effort, to lower his body to the ground, Vakeva relaxed and released her hold on the knife.

“I have little to offer,” said Vakeva. “But there is bread and cheese for tomorrow’s meal … I will share.”

“No thank you, my dear. Nourishment would be wasted on me. I have tasted my last meal. However, if you’ll indulge me, I will clear my throat with a swallow of whiskey.” He pulled a small flask out of one of his many cloak pockets. “The Irish ferment a wonderful mash. I suspect they will supply the world someday. Please forgive me, my little vice. Fighting the desire of your body’s organs when they are dying is painful. They are ready to go; however, I am not. This eases that sting. By morning’s light, I think you’ll understand.”

The old man puzzled her, and she had many questions. Organs dying? But she didn’t know how to begin asking for answers. After a long pause, she responded. “You’re the most unusual man I’ve ever met, Mr. Voegelin. How does one never eat again? And how did we meet in your dream? I surely don’t remember visiting you in a dream or otherwise.”

“Please, call me Wenzel.” He took a deep, laborious breath. “Your first question has a simple answer, if you think about it. How many meals would you guess someone who looks like me could possibly have left to consume?”

Vakeva squirmed on her log seat. She thought he looked beyond death already but was too polite to say so. “At your age I would guess … not many, but certainly not eating would hasten your … aging.” She refrained from saying death.

“My aging has been hastened beyond the help of food or medicine.” Wenzel reached into his coat again and retrieved the flask. After another quick swig, he replaced it and continued. “Your second question is not so obvious, but just as simple. Things—future things—are shown to me in dreams. Faerie-inspired visions. You will experience that too, my daughter. Not everything is shown to me; I’m not a clairvoyant. I see only what the fae reveal, but I foresaw we would meet on my last night.”

While listening to him, Vakeva stared at the blazing fire, wondering why it hadn’t gone out, then stiffened at his reference to her as daughter. She hadn’t heard that word in so many years that it stung. Despite the fire’s warmth, she felt an icy chill at the mention of his last night. With deliberate slowness, she lifted her head to view him more fully. “Last night?”

“Ah yes. This night will mark my end in this life. I will die, but you will have a new birth. And I foresee it will not be your last.”

His words were taking a strange turn—death, birth, faeries—that worried her. Her nightly training kept her watching for danger and this talk put her on edge. This old man couldn’t hurt me. While she consciously put the idea of danger out of her mind, she unconsciously moved her hand toward the knife.

“Oh, no need for your trusty weapon. You have nothing to fear from me. On the contrary, my dear, after tonight, you will not fear much of anything.” His faltering voice seemed to steady as he made this pronouncement, as if the statement was more profound than it appeared.

She noticed where her hand had rested and pulled it away. “I didn’t—”

“Vakeva, never apologize for your reflexes. But indulge me as I tell my story. It will take some time, but we have the entire night.” He settled back and looked to the night sky while appearing to age a few more years before her eyes—his wrinkles sunk deeper, his eyelids sagged more, his skin color darkened. “What a wonderful moon. I call it the Wizard Moon.”

“Are you okay, Mr. Voegelin … Wenzel?”

“No, my dear. And by the end of my story, you’ll understand why.” He took another swig from his flask and a couple of deep breaths. Then he looked directly at Vakeva. “It all started for me on a night much like tonight—I was a boy of thirteen, not much younger than I assume you are now—two, three years? You may think that was a long time ago, but it was much longer than you can imagine. I met an old man named Gregorian Monteith—a wizard.”

“A wizard?” Vakeva burst into a belly laugh she hadn’t used in years. “Just a few minutes ago, you made fun of me for naming my donkey Merlin. Now, who enjoys mythology?” If this were anybody else, I’d have my knife in my hand. But he seems sincere … and harmless.

Wenzel Voegelin also laughed—a hoarse, gurgling bit of laughter that ended in a coughing fit. When he recovered, he pointed to the fire. Vakeva again realized it had been burning for some time without stoking or refueling. The stack of wood she had gathered lay untouched at the edge of the clearing. But now the flames seemed to dance.

Wenzel dramatically waved his hand like a cheironomer before a choir, and the fire blazed brighter, obeying his movements. Vakeva was awestruck. But he wasn’t through. With a twist of his fingers, a spit of flame formed into a giant eagle and flew into the sky, swirling overhead until it was out of sight.

“Have you hypnotized me?” Her hand moved closer to the knife.

“No, no.” He laughed again until the coughing overpowered the joyous noise. “It was only a parlor trick magicians do to entertain,” he said when his throat calmed enough to speak.

“So, you’re a magician. I saw one once, with my father, in Dublin. He made things disappear and then reappear in an empty box.”

“That is a different type of magician, my dear. Now sit back and relax, and I’ll explain why I’m here.”

She did the opposite of relaxing, but she sat back to listen.

Wenzel began the story of his life—how Gregorian and others mentored him until he, too, became a powerful wizard. He imparted the knowledge of his adventures. He told her of lesser magicals, witches and warlocks, living among the unknowing masses. And he described the powerful sorcerers who never die. Vakeva sat awestruck, not knowing what to believe. As the wee hours of the morning grew, he talked about a particular sorcerer, Magzaar, and his destructive quest for power and the futile attempt by many wizards to check his ambitions.

“Magzaar had been amassing power for centuries—dozens of centuries. In more recent times, he’s grown an army of witches and warlocks to help achieve what he calls his destiny—a destiny to rule all and worse … destroy anyone who challenges him.”

Wenzel grimaced, retrieved his flask, and took another swig before continuing.

“Through long and diligent study, I found a curse that could lock him away in a faerie prison—if I could wield it properly.”

“I didn’t think cute little faeries could lock up powerful sorcerers.”

“The fae are not what you know from faerie tale story books, my dear. Fae are the source of all magic on earth—and everywhere else. We know very little about them or their full power, just that they are between us and the Gods.”

“Gods? Someone once told me there was more than one. Is that true?”

“Truth is hard to determine, but aside from the occasional prophecy, they don’t often interfere in the daily life of mortals, so it really doesn’t matter.”

“Did the fae give you the spell you used?”

“Not directly. This spell took me hundreds of years to find and then learn.”

“Nobody lives hundreds of years.” Vakeva could accept stories of mythical sorcerers who lived forever, but not this old man claiming he lived many lifetimes. She didn’t reach for her knife, but she leaned back on her log and looked at Wenzel differently. He must be crazy.

“Wizards live a long time, my dear. Perhaps too long. That’s just one of the many things you will learn.”

She shook her head to clear her brain. Back to wizards. Nothing in her tremendous memory could compare to this old man’s stories. He did make the fire do amazing things. But couldn’t the magician in Dublin have a trick to do that? She leaned toward him. “Okay … well, go on. I enjoy interesting stories, even if they aren’t true.”

Wenzel smiled through his tangled beard. “After acquiring this spell, I searched for Magzaar for many years, and a fortnight ago, we met for a great battle on an island off the coast of Wales. My curse caught him unawares and worked … mostly. I managed to use great magic to neutralize him—locking him away in the faerie never-land.”

“So, the bad sorcerer is gone. The world is safe. Good riddance. That’s the way faerie tales are supposed to end.” Vakeva humored Wenzel because, as outlandish as they were, his stories were the most intriguing she’d heard in a long time, and she wanted them to go on.

“Gone, yes. But only temporarily. I found another spell that would end his existence, but alas … I don’t understand it. So, I used the lesser spell to lock him away. I failed—but Magzaar didn’t.”

“How can you say you failed if you locked him away, even if it’s temporary? That sounds like he failed to me.”

“His consequence is temporary. Mine is permanent. He killed me.”

Vakeva recoiled. Is this a ghost? Is that how he could appear in the clearing without me hearing him? Magicians, wizards, ghosts? What’s going on?

Wenzel laughed at her reaction. He knew what she was thinking—it was obvious from the rapidly changing expressions on her face.

“Oh, I am not a spirit. Not until the morning sun, anyway. Magzaar cast a death curse on me before my enchantment took hold of him. Fifteen days ago, before the battle, I was an old-looking man but not ancient. Since the battle, I have been aging with increasing haste. I landed in Ireland looking like someone’s great-grandfather. And you now see me as someone who has eluded death for far too long—which I have.”

Wenzel pulled a bowl with a long stem from one of his magical pockets. He stuffed and lit the pipe and blew out strange blue-green smoke. It circled his head, moved around Vakeva’s body, then floated to the sky. It smelled of happiness—and trust. When he’d had a few good puffs, he resumed his tale.

“Magzaar is killing me from the inside. He used a curse called ‘chronodysphor,’ which produces a time dysphoria—my body has become dissatisfied with its unusually slow aging and is seeking to right itself. I am reverting to my actual age in mortal years. There are no wounds to treat. Chronodysphor is strong and there is no anti-spell. I was dead the instant his magic hit me—it just takes some time for life to leave my body.”

“But why are you here? This happened across the Irish Sea. That’s a long way to go when you’re dying.”

“I must pass on my magic.”

Vakeva’s eyes widened. “You can give your magic away?” Then she forced herself back to reality. Magic is not real. “I mean … I’m sure magic can be taught. That magician in Dublin learned his tricks somewhere. But wizards?” She shook her head. “Like I said, the other side of the sea is a long way to travel. Why are you here?”

“You are the recipient chosen for me. My vision, you see. I won’t be able to mentor you as Gregorian did me. But you are smarter than I was. And you’ll have books I didn’t possess until much later in my long life.”

The night with the strange visitor took another surreal turn. “I have no books, and I can’t read.” She laughed at the old man’s naivete.

“You’ll find the books, and you’ll possess abilities that will amaze you. Just remember, remember this well, books are your friend. They will guide you. Once in my … your … sanctuary, you’ll learn what I know. How you grow that knowledge is up to you.”

“What is … sanctuary?” Her inquisitive brain wanted to hear more even as she disbelieved the old man’s preposterous tale.

“My place of study … work. A place of ultimate safety and comfort. When you find it, it will be yours. Inside is all the magic I’ve acquired over many years—books and artifacts.”

“How will I find it?” Vakeva wanted to believe. How her life would improve if she could do magic—real magic. No more knife fighting to defend herself.

“Find your way to Dublin. You’ll meet a wizard there who will accompany you. Along the way, he will teach you how to use the magic I impart.”

Master Wizard Wenzel Voegelin spoke until the twilight sun made its appearance. Young, orphaned pedlar, Vakeva Gullveig listened all night as she stole glances at the bright moon—for comfort. The wizard’s pipe stayed magically lit as he aged before the wondering eyes of the young woman about to become a wizard.

“The Wizard Moon is about to set, and the sun will soon arrive, dear Vakeva. If you would be so kind as to help me lie back. I do not have the strength to move myself.”

She looked up at the moon. It smiled down on her—or it seemed to. She helped the puzzling old man—Wenzel—to his back.

“Please touch my face and don’t let go until my life is spent. Take my cloak. It holds many useful things. Leave my body. It is of no use to either of us. Find sanctuary. Once there, follow my stories and you’ll enter—books will guide you. Study well, my dear daughter.”

Rather than make her feel hurt, as before, the sound of the word daughter brought tears of love to her young gray eyes.

“You will have a new birth, Vakeva, so in a very meaningful way, you are my daughter.”

She placed her hands on his face and her fingers began to tingle—the sensation growing fiercer as she held fast. Sparks formed around her hands and moved up her arms. She was scared, but somehow removing her grip seemed even more frightening. Her whole body tingled and burned. When the life had completely left the old man, the ordeal stopped. The strange, happy smoke from the ornate red clay pipe disappeared. The campfire, which had burned warmly all night without tending, went out—the coals gave off no heat.

Vakeva released her hold on the wizard’s face and stood up. She felt different, was different, had to be different. Different was the adjective that applied to everything from here forward—forever.

As the sun rose, Vakeva pulled the cloak out from under Wenzel and placed it over her own shoulders. It felt right. With little effort, she moved the body to the edge of the clearing and covered it with stones, wedging his staff between the rocks. When satisfied she had provided the self-proclaimed wizard a proper burial, she found herself uttering words similar to those spoken at her father’s funeral six years earlier.

“We didn’t know each other … long … in this life, Wenzel, but I know from what you left behind that you were a good man, and may your soul be received by God … Gods? … from whence it came.” Though many centuries later than expected. Her unspoken addition surprised her, but her mind quickly jumped to another part of Father O’Malley’s eulogy. God has great plans for someone who leaves behind so much, and he has great plans for those left.

She shook the thoughts off, broke camp, hitched Merlin to the small wagon, and headed down the path toward the road. Here, she stopped to ponder. What great plan does God, or the faeries, have for a dead wizard and a poor orphan?

Her destination of yesterday lay to the right. That was her inclination. She had a cartful of goods to sell. Her livelihood, her world, was tied to the merchandise in the cart, and her route. The strange traveler’s tales were already moving to the part of her brain reserved for fantasy stories and tall tales. But she felt … different. That didn’t go away.

“Well, Merlin. What should we do?” She patted the donkey’s head as she looked both west toward Finnea and then east toward Dublin. With a whimsical twinkle in her eyes, she said, “The nonsense is over. Let’s just pluck a tune on our lute and dance our way to Finnea.”

She placed her hands as if playing a lute and began strumming the air. To her astonishment, a beautiful sound rang out. She looked down and nearly dropped the finely crafted lute she held in her hands.

“No—”

With disbelief battling her senses, she turned the lute over and over and then plucked at the strings. The sound was real. The instrument was real.

She looked back to the grave of Wenzel Voegelin. “Am I still under your spell?”

As carefully as she could manage, she placed the lute on the wagon and looked at her hands. She moved them gently through the air, feeling the tingling of power that she’d been trying to ignore since she held her Wenzel’s face. Not knowing exactly why, she balled up her right fist and threw an imaginary ball at the dead campfire in the clearing. It exploded in a burst of fire that nearly knocked her down. What is this? Her gray eyes opened wide, fighting against the extreme brightness of the flame. What have I done?

“Stop!” she yelled as she held her hand, palm out, toward the firepit.

The bonfire left as quickly as it came.

Did I do that?

Vakeva stared for a moment and then turned toward Merlin. Wenzel Voegelin’s stories rattled in her mind along with his words … you will have a new birth.

Today, she was new and so … must begin. He did something to me. I must go to Dublin and find that wizard.

With something akin to a private coronation, she flexed her hands into fists and relaxed them. The tingling of the sparks flowed throughout her body—not the frightening ones from earlier, but powerful ones she felt she owned. The old Vakeva was gone. She didn’t know how or why, but she knew it. With a little shake of her body to formalize the thought, she turned left—toward Dublin.

Vakeva Gullveig was on a mission. She knew not what lay ahead, but she believed she would know it at the appropriate time. She smiled back toward the grave of the wizard.

“Come Merlin. We have an adventure to begin.” I am a wizard. It still sounded like a ludicrous idea in her mind—a faerie tale. “We can make Dublin in three days if we walk steady. Are you up for it, my faithful donkey?”

Merlin nodded his head and pounded his hoof as if he understood.

And so, the teenaged orphan, pedlar of wares, left her only known world to follow the outlandish story of an old man who died in her hands.

                                                            THE END

Coming soon: the WIZARD REALM saga continues with the full-length novel Wizard Earth.

In WIZARD EARTH, a soul eager to start life enters Vakeva Gullveig, who is born in 1474 during the height of a solar eclipse (and the mysterious alignment of the Wizard Star) to a dead mother. She’s orphaned at a young age and must learn to deal with those who cheat her out of everything under the guise of providing safety. Not yet a teenager, she strikes out on her own, only to be attacked, robbed, and kidnapped as she travels the roads of medieval Ireland. As the delight and danger of following in her father’s footsteps define her everyday life, she uses her wits to find success while maintaining her moral compass.

As Vakeva learns about love, betrayal, and normal, mortal life, the hidden magical side of existence is playing out with the Wizard Wenzel Voegelin, overcoming his own tragic childhood of a Roman army massacre, and dealing with the evil inflicted on the world by the sorcerer Magzaar. Wenzel rises to the top of the wizard’s order and must fight Magzaar, whose self-proclaimed destiny is to rule the world. In the battle, Wenzel sends Magzaar to a faerie purgatory, but Magzaar lands a death curse that leaves Wenzel with just enough life to find young Vakeva and transfer his magic. Vakeva is now a wizard and must choose between a known life she loves following her late father or an uncertain life as a magical, knowing that Magzaar will return one day.

The WIZARD EARTH blends layered timelines, parallel character development, and mythological depth. Its richly detailed world spans celestial bodies, while navigating a coming-of-age journey, following an orphan challenging an unjust world—to become… well, we’ll see………