The Wizard

SMASH!

And, on the heels of that,

“Drat it!”

Bartholomew hated when the kids outside were playing ball. He hated it, and he hated the ragtag group of insufferable boys that had the nerve to keep playing it. This was the ninth ball this spring to have found its winded way through the old man’s window, and it would not be the last, unless he put a stop to it.

Of course as a wizard, that was more than possible.

A bent and twisted posture struggling to hold up a frail and thin body, a beard sweeping to and fro like a white and furry pendulum, Bartholomew limped across the room to the old window sill. The room was cluttered with books, most with tangible layers of dust burying their torn pages and precarious condition. They were stacked everywhere. On the shelves, chairs, the floor… how the old man traversed this plain of forgotten tales was a mystery known only to him.

Shards of glass winked dully to greet the wizard as he presented himself at the window, glancing and glaring and daring the little ruffians to show themselves. They never did, of course. The instincts of a young boy are only quicker than his feet, and both would’ve been honed quite thoroughly since the first stray homerun had had the misfortune to enter Mr. B’s house. Oh, if Bartholomew could have caught one of them then… even a glimpse and he could send a nice and fatty rat to find one and crawl into his bed as he slept.

But that was the problem, the source for why nothing had been done since the first ball and this latest one. The wizard hadn’t caught even a glimpse of any of the boys, and there be a dozen of them and more sometimes when they decided to play.

How did they do it? Bartholomew wondered. Countless times he asked that question and not once an answer was unearthed. Not even he, a tested wizard, could find out.

They always waited, it seemed. Bartholomew was an old man, and old men as seasoned as he cannot spend the full day awake. He had to take a nap at one time or the other, and as soon as his tired eyes drooped, there the boys came out, their game ready and fast under way. Always, no matter what time the wizard went to doze, the boys waited. Waited and then sprung out of the bushes or holes or wherever it is they hid and out into the street they went for some ball.

Naturally, Bartholomew (who had heard the boys, and no doubt the other children followed suit, call him Mr. B. with no fear whatsoever) had attempted to trick the boys into their terrorizing game. He would feign sleep – even closing his eyes, though the children couldn’t possibly see – but no, the children never came out. Or, if they did, he usually had regrettably fallen asleep already.

And so here was the ninth ball. Peacefully malignant it perched on a nearby stooped pile of books. Marks from the broken glass made it look like it was smiling at him. This infuriated Mr. B. even more. A last glance past the broken window in the hopes of spying a last boy scrambling for cover and the wizard picked up the ball –  and threw it back out the window. The resounding smash as a second gap appeared beside the first startled him a little. Bartholomew hated children, but he strongly disliked loud sounds too. He had never done that before, throw a ball back into the street, giving the brats back a weapon to further lay siege on his windows, and he didn’t understand why he did so now. But an idea had struck him. It was always that way back in his adventures; when the right time came, the right idea always struck. So he had thrown the ball, and now he waited for the next step of his idea to form itself.

Not ten seconds later, it did.

A boy’s face had appeared amidst the hedge on the opposite street. Orange-red hair, freckles, and ears that stuck out comically. Bartholomew was aware of him instantly; he was old and tired but his eyes were sharp from reading all those books. Through the window the old man watched the red-haired boy crawl from his position, look to unseen comrades for confirmation or warning, and slowly, guiltily, bound for the ball. His sprint was very quick, pushed by fear as the shabby house loomed over him and his treasure, but the old man was smiling.

“Bigilly, flunter, pooch!” the old man cried in a swift voice.

As the boy’s fingertips grazed the smiling ball his red-orange hair tingled and his nose felt suddenly itchy. Next second, he wasn’t on the road of a quiet suburban street but inside a filthy and ragged house. With gloom nearing utter despair the boy knew that he was inside the place of his doom. It was the house his parents had warned against not to disturb. It was the one that was out of place on a block of neatly trimmed lawns and two-door garages. This was the house where Mr. B. lived. The old man had caught one of the kids at last; he had caught him.

Bartholomew watched the boy struggle before him; it was like the boy was dealing with a limp of his own inside his mind. It was very satisfying, after all the trouble the boy and his fickle friends had caused.

“Hmmm,” the wizard pondered. The next step in this so far triumphant plan remained veiled to him.  “What shall be done with you, then?”

The boy, of course, had no idea. Perhaps leaving the house alive would suffice, but he doubted fate could be so merciful. Reluctantly, and against all dignity and pride he possessed, the boy’s lips began to tremble.

The tears came next, seeping through the boy’s rapidly blinking eyes like free-falling hitchhikers. The old man saw this, though the boy had no intention to let him. And the old man was surprised when he felt a shifting in his own insides, beneath the frustration and magic. Arrgh! No, this couldn’t be possible! He had waited so long and now the moment for revenge was here and he was feeling remorse! Remorse for what? He hadn’t been able to do anything yet!

The boy’s faint whimpers were not only audible now, but were ascending to be potent sobs. The boy hated that he should lose his composure so surely. He hated that the old man kept looking at him.

The old man hated that he was feeling insecure of himself.

Then, just as abruptly as he had thrown the baseball out the window, the wizard acted.

“Leave!!!” he shouted into the boy’s face.

The boy’s gleaming eyes widened. They looked like white pebbles wet from the sea.

“Stop hassling me! You leave here alive only once! The next kid I get is DEAD!!”

Then the boy ran, out the room and into the hallway and out the front door, and the boys never played near Bartholomew’s house again.

Boy, he thought later. Magic isn’t dead in this world after all.