His Last Hour

Willard fiddled with the last purple bead on the band around his right wrist. The band around his left was devoid of beads. He’d traded the yellow and orange striped miller’s bead to the blacksmith for one of her black beads, which he then traded to the hunter for a fowl for dinner.

The hunter had been too kind. It was usually two for a fowl, three for a hare or a joint of boar or venison. Taking care of the hunter’s lodgings and gardens took time that would have reduced the time he’d have to hunt.

When he’d been more in demand, Willard had several bracelets of others’ beads on his left wrist. “Give with the right, collect with the left,” the saying went, but he’d long since passed the point where he could collect anything.

He’d had powers, once…magics that he could perform on behalf of others. One of his conjurations had gone wrong, and the daemon he sought an answer from took his power away. Now, all he had to offer was teaching.

Reading and writing were of little value to most of the village, and of those who did value it, all were already versed. Basic mathematics were more valued, but again, with no children to teach, Willard had nothing to offer.

He knew nothing of farming, smithing, milling, baking, building or any of the myriad other chores that people traded with. Perhaps, if there was a legal dispute, as the most learned in the village, Willard could act as solicitor. That was an unlikely scenario, though.

It was good that his dwelling had been built years ago, in a part of the wood that had no value to the farmers, hunters, or others. The ground was damp and soft, the game rare. In high summer it was swarmed with mosquitos, and in winter thick fogs nestled in and settled for days at a time.

His stone cottage stayed warm and dry, and he was thankful that even when his powers had been taken, the enchantment against insects held. As the fowl stewed in the pot hung over the fire, Willard contemplated how he had fallen so far.

He still had firewood, that he had collected himself. It took him three times longer, if not more, than the woodsman, but he had no time left to barter away; save the lone, remaining bead on his right wrist. The small garden plot behind the cottage still grew cabbage and beans in season, though it was far too hot for them now.

Willard retired early, settling into an uneasy sleep. The daemon that had taken his power returned to his dreams as it had most nights.

He woke to the first songbirds, the skies clear and the day promising to be hot and muggy. He had half a fowl left to get him through the day, but nothing else to eat.

Refusing to show defeat, Willard held his head high as he walked to the village and entered the bakery. He placed his last bead on the counter. “Horse bread please.”

The baker scowled and placed a single loaf of the low-quality bread on the counter. “There ya’ go, magus.” The emphasis on the last word was dismissive.

“Horse bread is three loaves an hour, not one,” he said.

“For you, it’s one.” She pointed at the loaf. “Take it or leave it.”

“It’s three loaves an hour, for everyone. That’s the whole point. No one’s time is worth more than anyone else’s.”

“Tell that to the rest of the village. In fact, if you can trade your one hour for anyone else’s, I’ll trade the three loaves and throw in a loaf of white bread.”

Willard took his bead and left. He wandered around the village, asking for anyone willing to trade an hour of their time for an hour of his. He was met with outright hostility by some, derision by others, and an apologetic “I have no need of a teacher” by others.

By the third hour, he had grown tired of trying to remind the villagers of the system they all claimed to abide by.

---

"Value is something woven in time,

"Hours the warp and labor the weft.

"No difference in worth between thine and mine;

"Give with the right, collect with the left."

---

There remained only one person left to ask, and he dreaded it. The tinker, for whom Willard had summoned the daemon. Not only had it cost him his power and begun his downfall, he had failed to get the answer the tinker sought, though she paid him for it anyway.

Willard heaved a deep sigh and entered the tinker’s shop. She was busy rounding out a pot with a small hammer and didn’t hear him enter.

“Madam, I wonder if I could trade an hour for an hour,” he said.

She turned with a broad smile. “Magus! How good to see you!” She had several bracelets around her left wrist. Most notable was one that held all but the last of his purple beads. Her own bracelet, on her right wrist, was full. Seventy beads, the total number every villager had to trade when they reached the age of maturity.

It equated to one week of steady work. There, on her left wrist, was sixty-nine hours of his own labor, frozen in waiting for her to collect.

“I see you have only one hour left to trade in advance,” she said.

“Well you should know, since you hold all my hours hostage, it seems.”

“I just haven’t found a use for you yet, and I’ve not stopped others from trading your hours for their own.”

“I implore you, madam, please, may I trade my last hour for another’s…anyone’s.” He tried to smile, though it didn’t feel like he succeeded. “The baker is refusing a fair trade for my hour, though she said she would for any other.”

Her smile grew. “Of course, magus. In fact, I’ll trade you one of the baker’s.” She removed one of the brown and gold beads from her left wrist and added one of her own silver beads. “I’m giving you one of mine, as a way to say to thanks, and I hope there are no hard feelings between us.”

“O—of course. Thank you. You are far too kind.”

She added the purple bead to the bracelet on her left wrist as he added the other two to his. A swirl of black smoke rose from the center of the room and a figure stepped out: the daemon that had taken his power.

“Well done, child. His power is now yours.” A glow spread from the daemon’s hand and surrounded the tinker, settling into her.

“You—you tricked me! You knew the daemon would take my power and made a deal to take it for yourself!” Willard calmed himself. “And what, pray tell, is the price you have to pay?”

“What are you talking about old man? I got you to summon him and collected all your hours as he required.”

Willard felt his joints loosening, his skin tightening, vision and breath becoming clearer. He looked around the tinker shop and realized that he knew how to fix every item there. Even though he no longer had his power, he could still sense what the magic was doing throughout the village.

The tinker, now the magus, grew old before his eyes. Her back stooped, her fingers gnarled, her hair turning white and her skin wrinkling. She dropped the hammer in surprise. “What?! What is happening?”

“You got what you bargained for,” he said. His left wrist filled with the beads she’d previously held, his right wrist held all but one of her, now his, silver beads. In place of his robe, he wore the outfit of a tinker. Her left wrist now held the two beads she’d given him, showing just beyond the frayed sleeves of her robe.

“This—this is not how it’s supposed to happen! You had hours from everyone!”

“Yes, when I had power. You saw to it that it was taken away. Perhaps you can do some spells and convince the village your power is back, perhaps not.” He walked around behind the bench where she’d been working and picked up the hammer. Being able to bend over so easily was something he’d long since forgotten.

“But…what am I to do?”

“For starters, take the baker’s bead to her. I suspect she’ll give you three loaves of horse bread and a loaf of white. You will find half a game fowl in the pot, and enough wood for a few days in your cottage. You can bring the kettle in with my silver bead, and I’ll repair it for you.”

“It’s not—”

“What? Fair? Time is time, and you are using mine up. I would suggest you not mention this to anyone else, lest they think the magus has lost her mind and is no longer trustworthy.”

“I—I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“I’m sure you will. Your library in the cottage is quite extensive, including a book on demonology. Oh, I do have a task for you, though.” He held up a samovar he knew was his, now. Enchant this with the ‘Blessing of Auriculus.’ You’ll find it in the book labeled, ‘Household items,’ third shelf from the top, right-hand side. It should take about an hour. I’ll pay you back one of your hours when you’ve completed it.”

Willard went back to work on the pot, rounding it out where it had been crushed. As she paused in the doorway, he called after her. “Magus, I hope there are no hard feelings between us.”