Young Wizard

By moc.liamhsuh@drolralop

Published on Dec 8, 2004

Gay

Nigel Bishop was playing with butterflies in the summer afternoon sun at the back of the long garden behind their cottage when his mother called him. They did not realise that it was the first step, the start of his long journey through a life that would be so different from any other normal six year old boy. Their cottage was over 300 years old at the centre of an old Wiltshire village buried in the heart of England. The ancient peace of the village wrapped the villagers in timeless comfort. His ancestors had lived close to the village. They had watched the Roman soldiers come and go. The lands around had lost half of their families to the Great Plague. Some men died at the swords of the Parliamentarian soldiers, but still the bloodline persisted like a golden thread though the ages. At the start of that thread was a Norse invader. It showed in Nigel's pale skin, blue eyes and silky blond hair.

The time was 1950 when England was recovering from the darkness of the World War. Nigel's father was still away in the army, a component of that same Regiment which had claimed the lives of his ancestors. In the village life was quiet and showed little trace of the horrors of the conflict. Few cars were seen on the tarred gravel roads children could wander safely and every one knew each other. That familiarity went back through the generations and there was care from the able bodied for the needy.

"Nigel, come in and get changed into your good clothes. We're going to visit old Mrs Deaville. She is very old now and I promised the vicar that I would tidy her garden."

Nigel felt a squeeze of fear on his shoulders. "Oh no, they were going to visit the Witch". All of the kids at school, even the Townie evacuees who had stayed on, knew that Mrs Deaville was a witch. She must be over 100 years old and lived in a dark cottage by the village pond. The children never saw her come out of the cottage, but they all knew that she lived in there. It was a dark looming presence to be feared. They knew she was blind and almost immobile, but if they ever trespassed in her garden to steal plums or apples from the trees their parents would know before they arrived home.

Nigel did not know that Mrs Deaville had been present at his birth as she had with most of the children over the past 80 years. She had been the midwife to the village and surrounding villages. It was she who handed the bawling bundles of life to their sweating mothers. It was she who gently passed the still parcel of disappointment and grief to weeping mothers when the child did not survive. Mrs Deaville was one who knew of the Old Ways, passed down through her ancestor women.

"Aww mum, do I have to go? I promised I'd go down to the stream with Billy?"

"Hush child, we must look after the elders. It's only a short time and when we get back there is a cake that I've made. Go now and get changed."

The tendrils of post-war food rationing had even reached out to this quiet village. So the promise of a cake at teatime was a rich bribe for the young boy. He ran upstairs and found that his mother had laid out his best clothes. A grey school shirt, flannel shorts with blue bracers, long grey socks and black school boots. The boots were polished, the clothes had no patches and they were only just too big for him.

He shrugged his torn and patched play clothes to the bedroom floor and wriggled into good clothes. As always one of the wings of the shirt collar was askew. It was straightened by his mother when he rattled down the stairs. The nails in his boots were a source of joy to Nigel, he had the best ones in school and they threw up great sparks at night when he scuffed them on the road. His father had even sent some German mountain boot nails over from where he was stationed with the Regiment.

There were many interesting things in the roadside grass verges and the ditches to attract Nigel's attention as he followed his mother down the lane to the Village Green. His mother knew that really he was trying to put off the moment when he entered Deaville's cottage. She could understand the young boy's fears. The old lady could be an imposing person whom no one in the village had the courage to cross.

"Come on Nigel, let's get there today, not tomorrow."

At the cottage door, open as was the norm in the village, she knocked and called out.

"Hello Mrs Deaville, it's me Mrs Bishop. I've come to do your garden. Are you sleeping?"

"No dear I'm up, come in. Why don't you put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea. I've got some orange squash in the cupboard for young Master Nigel there."

Brenda Bishop did not know how the old lady had sensed that her son was there. He was as quiet as a mouse standing tentatively by the door. She knew that Mrs Deaville was now totally blind. It had always been that way. Mrs Deaville always seemed capable of knowing who was there and what they were thinking even in the darkness of her world.

"Young master Nigel. Come over here and let me see how you have been growing. You must be a big six year old boy by now."

The old lady never forgot any of the babies that she had delivered into this world. She followed each of their lives and for some she was also present at their burial. Nigel received a tug from his mother and he reluctantly walked over to the witch fearing her touch. He noticed that close up she didn't look so frightening and she didn't smell like the other old people.

He stretched his hand out to the wrinkled hand of the old lady. For the second and last time in his life their flesh made contact. At first her hand felt cool to touch, but quickly Nigel felt a growing warmth pass between themselves. Soon it was almost hot. He tried to pull his hand away, but she held on.

"Brenda dear, you'll be wanting to go to the garden and get me some flowers."

Mrs Bishop felt the overwhelming compunction to go to the garden now. She knew that she had to leave her son alone with the old lady. Her son would be safe, but she had to go now. She left the room and was soon in the garden among the flowers, knowing that her son would come and collect her when the time was right.

Nigel did not notice his mother leave the room. Suddenly the old lady released his hand, but his body felt warm and comfortable.

"Come close and listen hard young master Nigel. You will need to remember this, as I don't have long now. I won't be here to guide you but you will find your way ok. They told me that you would come, but I didn't really believe it. You do not know it, but you are a Guardian but you are the last of your line as am I. The blade will find you and protect you once it has tasted your blood. You will not know its full power until your milk comes. From then you will be its guardian. Guard it well for it has great power for both good and evil. You will have 50 years to complete your last task, that task will be to hand the blade over to the next Guardian."

With that, the old lady closed her misty eyes and fell asleep. Nigel went into the garden to find his mother. Puzzled by and not understanding what the old lady had said to him.

"Hi Nigel, I thought I'd come out and get some nice flowers for Mrs Deaville. She's not as bad as you thought, is she?"

"She's asleep now, seems a bit crazy to me."

Continued ...

Next: Chapter 2


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