Missing Ingredient

Sethaster ascended the ladder that gave access to the higher shelves of the scriptorium bookcases. The young mage deliberately did not think of what he was looking for in case such thoughts propelled the precious item to hide itself elsewhere. Some magical ingredients possessed enough awareness to elude the seeker.

But when he could look over the edge, he only saw dust and, in a far corner, the headless skeleton of a mouse that Grimmer must somehow have carried up here to enjoy undisturbed and then only eaten the head. He was used to finding diminutive corpses minus their heads but only the familiar’s mage found them on his pillow intended as a generous gift.

He glanced down at the distant floor to measure the distance and fathom how a cat could get this high, then regretted the folly and clung to the top rung of the ladder. To banish his fear, he thought of Grimoire, giving the old cat his proper name and letting the sadness well up.

Losing his mentor and then his mentor’s cat within a fortnight, though both of them had been getting on in age, burdened him with the undesired role of Master Mage much sooner than expected. 

If he was honest with himself, his uncertain view of the future would have kept him in the role of apprentice until he was the same age as the white-haired Elaturian if the mage had not left earthly concerns behind him.

“So, do you want to travel to the halls of the gods and lodge a complaint?”

The voice startled him so much that he almost fell from the ladder but managed to cling to the top of the bookcase.

Sethaster avoided his recent mistake of looking down only by an effort of will. Instead, he concentrated on the ladder, negotiating each step, repositioning his hands and feet as required.

“Large boots to fill and no mistake,” the Archmagus continued.

Sethaster breathed a sigh of relief as his toes reached the wooden floor which soon accommodated both his bare feet. Though tempted to answer back that mages did not typically wear boots, he said nothing. Best not to argue. Keep things short and simple.

Bracing himself, he turned around to gaze at the massive floating eye which was bigger than his own head. Unblinking, the bloodshot, lidless eye always made him queasy.

Why couldn’t the drifting eyeball be as elegant as something fashioned from porcelain? That was how it appeared in his textbook. No warning of how ghastly the actual appearance would be since it was based entirely on the eye of the mage casting the transmission spell.

“Large boots to fill and no mistake,” the Archmagus repeated as the eye finally located Sethaster, hovering with a fixed stare, all the worse because the massive eye never blinked due to the lack of any eyelid so that visual communication was never interrupted.

“I can hear you, Archmagus,” the young mage verified, hoping to keep their discussion brief. He suspected that the comment about lodging a complaint with the gods had been intended for someone sharing the same physical location who hopefully was not lingering to listen in.

“So, Sethaster, have you located what you have been so earnestly searching for or must we continue to call it, for safety’s sake, the essential missing ingredient?”

The young mage sighed at how long it took his interlocutor to ask the question when four words would suffice. Had he found it? “Not yet,” he admitted, concentrating on the beautiful blue green eye of a peacock feather which happened to be just behind the projected eye of the Archmagus.

The outburst of a gusty sneeze spluttered through the transmission which made him glad he was a thousand miles away and that the horrific eyeball was not a nose or mouth of equivalent proportions.

“The moon is waning fast,” the Archmagus intoned in a solemn voice. 

“Very true,” Sethaster agreed. Though cloudy nights generally hid the moon, he consulted his Moon Tables daily.

“It must be somewhere,” the Archmagus wheezed. “I only wish your mentor had been more fastidious in his storing of artifacts.”

This remark made the young mage burn with outrage. Elaturian had apprenticed him for several years and took great care with every detail. The problem was that certain items, usually the most rare and hardest to obtain, had their own ideas about where to be and when. He considered grabbing hold of his oaken staff and thwacking the eyeball in retaliation but decided that would not only make a disgusting splatter of ectoplasm which might damage books but would definitely ruin his prospects forever as a mage. 

The loud quacking of a duck erupted into the stillness, following by a hissing voice too low for the words to be made out.

Sethaster felt his face blanch. Only one mage he knew had a duck familiar, the very last person that he would want listening in to this awkward conversation. They had studied basic magic together and not gotten along.

“Well,” the Archmagus continued, “if you have nothing more to report, Sethaster, time be thine.”

Sethaster tried to think of some hopeful comment he could make, then resigned himself and answered, “Time be thine, Archmagus.”

As the horrific eye dwindled to the size of a fist and vanished, he wished fervently that the gods had granted Elaturian more time, at least enough to complete this challenging spell. He had been looking forward to supporting his mentor with the spell work, never imagined that he would have to do it himself.

“Fishes and buttonhooks,” he muttered, harnessing two unrelated items together in the hopes that this would prompt his mind to solve the annoying puzzle by the simple expedient of not thinking about it for a few seconds.

The attempt failed.

His oft neglected stomach gurgled.

Sethaster slowly turned around, relaxing as much as he could while trying to gaze at every nook and cranny of the scriptorium.

Not a glimmer of the missing ingredient.

Lowering his head in discouragement, he abandoned the crowded shelves and all that they might contain. As he made his way along the corridor and down the stairs, he kept an eye out for Grimmer, but of course the cat was not going to trip him up anymore or lay, belly up, inviting pets only to then grab the offending hand and arm with all four paws, claws ready to shred.

“Pinpricks,” he said, thinking of their many encounters which usually barely drew blood, “and cabbages.”

What sounded like a scurrilous scolding emanated from the pantry as he entered the small kitchen. 

“So that’s where you got to, Kedabra,” he told the blue and gold parrot. 

She gazed at him as if caught in the act, then squawked loudly and flew to perch on his left shoulder which was generously padded against these onslaughts. His familiar mumbled throatily before nibbling at his earlobe.

“Well, if you could get the treats out of the jar yourself,” Sethaster said, “they would all disappear down your gullet in a flash. You have to think of tomorrow, not just today.”

He took the jar down from the shelf, unhooked the lid and gave Kedabra a squidgy morsel which reminded him of the floating eye.

The parrot devoured the treat noisily before giving a loud squawk.

“You are most welcome,” the mage replied, wondering if he was actually going deaf in his left ear.

While the bird kept up a running commentary of warbles and random sounds she had learned to imitate, Sethaster raided the pantry for a pale green apple, sliced some brown bread, and cut a hunk of cheese from the half round.

He hid both the bread and cheese again so that his familiar would not help herself later, then poured himself some tawny ale.

When he sat down at the small wooden table to eat as quickly as possible, Kedabra jumped off his shoulder and winged over to perch on the chair opposite.

She imitated the low chuckle of Elaturian so perfectly that he looked up, startled, but only saw the blue and gold parrot nodding and bowing, shifting her feet on the back of the chair.

His mentor had always described this as doing her little dance. He wondered if she missed Grimmer. The two familiars had played sometimes, chasing each other or playing hide and seek.

“Children,” he said, “and roses.”

He ate and drank but with little appetite, his grief weighing on him. That he would never speak to Elaturian again, that was the crux of it. And there was no spell to reverse death unless one dabbled in necromancy which had exceedingly awful results and even worse consequences.

This spell needed to be worked at the dark of the moon. Some of the other ingredients would have to be gathered again if he had to wait for another lunar month to pass.

Sethaster sipped the tawny ale and, despite the animated presence of his familiar, felt the emptiness filling the mage’s abode without Elaturian and Grimoire. He was a tiny pebble rattling around in a hollow shell.

Though Kedabra had contributed a blue tail-feather from her last moult, the mage could not allow her into the workshop. Too many precarious and precious artifacts for her to make mischief with her strong grey beak or four-toed feet. 

In order to obtain some peace and quiet, Sethaster left a mound of hard-shelled nuts on the kitchen table alongside wooden puzzle blocks she could rearrange to her heart’s content. He swallowed. Elaturian had carved those, a hobby that his apprentice had taken up but was nowhere near as good at yet. Like magic, wood carving took continuous prolonged effort to improve. There would be quite a mess to clear up later, but it would be worth it to be able to concentrate.

Back in the workshop, he opened the wooden box carved with symbols of the four elements, which he had helped his mentor make, and transferred all the ingredients to his work surface. He put each one into the appropriate corner for air, water, and earth.

Long blue feather which had magical potency because Kedabra had been absorbing esoteric essences since the day she was hatched.

Vial of tears from a weeping giant who had needed to be told sad stories from sunrise until sunset before finally weeping. 

Leaf from a carnivorous Mugger tree which the apprentice had to persuade to eat meat that wasn’t still alive and struggling. When he moved in closer to cut the leaf, the voracious tree took a swipe at him, but luckily, he dodged. “Habit, sorry,” the tree said, but he was glad to get away from the vicinity.

Sethaster sighed. Only the tail-feather had been easy to obtain and, without the missing ingredient, the spell could not be cast. 

Maybe they should have opted for an ember from the everlasting flame at the distant-most temple dedicated to the gods of fire. But their decision for all of the ingredients, like all of their work together, had been discussed thoroughly and agreed upon. 

He closed his eyes, remembering coming home in a tremendous storm and then revealing his newest treasure before he had even removed his dripping cloak.

“Magnificent,” Elaturian pronounced, “most excellent and perfect.”

Even reliving the memory, Sethaster soaked up the praise, something which had mostly been lacking in his childhood and during most of his basic training to be a mage.

Hidden in plain sight.

His eyes snapped open, head turning to try and find the source of the familiar voice.

But he was alone. Completely and totally alone apart from Kedabra who had never imitated the spoken word.

Just his imagination then, conjuring because his memory had brought his old mentor so vividly into his mind’s eye. Nothing more than that.

Though many tales were told of spirits influencing the living, his interested inquiry into the matter during his training had been met with scornful laughter. The rival student who always seemed to be singled out for admiration joined in the mockery. He never asked again, though perhaps a different Professor of Magickal Studies might have provided a more helpful answer.

Sethaster opened the tome in which Elaturian had written the descriptives of the spell, a prediction of what influence it would exert, and the requisite consideration of what to do if everything went wrong. Magic, of course, was not without challenges. 

He read all of it word for word, though he could almost have written it verbatim himself by this point. Then, for the sake of some variety, he paged back through the heavy volume to study a previous spell, one that had performed better than expected and even stood up to the test of replication which not all spell work managed to do.

In the midst of reading it, he came across some familiar words.

Hidden in plain sight.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes, so when he looked again, the phrase was completely something else. Maybe he needed a walk in the fresh air now that the rain had finally stopped.

He smiled as he recalled Elaturian’s wise counsel, “We all must look after the body as well as the mind, not to forget the heart which has its own rhythms and understandings. Quality of sleep and nourishing food are as essential in the life of a mage as studying the Moon Tables and reworking successful spells.”

When he returned from the walk, his face and hands felt cold, his body chilled, so he made himself a hot drink of mint tea which his mentor had always loved. With Kedabra perched on his shoulder again, he retreated to the scriptorium, inhaling the comforting smell of much cherished and often consulted books as he walked through the doorway.

The blue and gold parrot, fortunately, had no appetite for chewing on parchment scrolls or taking bites from the corners of books, so it was safe for her to roam free in here except for the occasional splatter that needed cleaning up but that was no worse than Grimmer’s hairballs.

Sethaster knelt by the cold hearthplace and opened his senses to make sure that the warding which kept the flames strictly in their designated alcove was still strongly in place to protect all the magical writings. Amusement curling his lips, he struck a flint to light the pile of wood shavings and dried grasses at the base of a carefully constructed pyramid of seasoned sticks. 

Some professors would judge him for not using magic to do this, but Elaturian was of the opinion that using magic for ordinary tasks that could easily be done manually was quite wasteful.

He sighed, pleased to be thinking about his mentor so often but acknowledging the tide of grief that awaited the least invitation to overwhelm him again.

Deciding his mind needed a rest from magical considerations, he extracted a novel from the shelf nearest the flickering flames. Settling in the large comfortable chair where the white-haired mage always used to sit, he immersed himself in reading, undisturbed by the occasional murmurs of the blue and gold parrot.

Sethaster had just turned a page when he read overleaf: Hidden in plain sight.

Groaning at being haunted by this handful of words which, on closer inspection, proved to not be inscribed on the page, he looked around himself, found a blue wing feather on the arm of the chair and used that to mark his place in the book before setting it aside and getting up to add a small log to the fire on the hearth.

He settled back into the chair and mused whether, due to his exhaustion, he would fall into a brief slumber like Elaturian sometimes did after a large meal. Beginning to feel like he might well drift into a reverie as he stared into the flames, a lick of particularly golden flame caught his attention.

Suddenly wide awake, he leaned forward to study this more closely and laughed out loud when he distinguished, with no shadow of a doubt, the elegant curve of a shining variegated golden feather among the more commonplace flames.

“Please stay,” he said in the most encouraging voice he could muster, as if he was coaxing Kedabra down from a high shelf. “Please, please, please be part of the very first spell that I am working entirely on my own.”

He neither sensed nor heard any reply, but felt hopeful anyway.

Rolling up the sleeve of his robe all the way to his shoulder, he imagined plunging that bare arm into the coldest of rivers where chunks of ice were floating, preparing himself for the effort.

Then, holding his breath, he reached into the fire to retrieve the golden phoenix feather.

It was all he could do to not shout with joy as he made his way to the workshop where the other ingredients were still ready for the spell.

He carefully set the beautiful phoenix feather in the corner that embodied fire.

To his immense relief, when he returned after twilight had faded into deepest night in a sky where no moon provided light, all of the necessary ingredients were still there.

After taking the deepest of breaths, Sethaster began, from memory, to work the spell that he and his mentor had designed together. Gathering the elements of air and fire and water and earth into his awareness through the ingredients laid out before him, the young mage felt like a fledgling bird who at least was flying.

Later, he returned to the scriptorium, exhausted but delighted as well.

He might yet be allowed to stay here in the mage’s abode and become a mage that people consulted and looked to for answers. Perhaps he would rise like a veritable phoenix from the ashes. Time would tell. Feeling immense gratitude toward his mentor, he wondered, in that moment, whether spirits did linger to influence those they left behind.