Chapter 6

The fact that you’re not wearing any shoes has slipped your mind.

“No you’re not.”

As a child everyone would hear the stories of wizards and the witch that ruined them. Before her there had been no witches and then one day she came along; prancing and schmancing as the stories go. People hadn’t mind there being a witch, she was just like a wizard after all but a female and there was nothing wrong with that. Then the people began to see the divisions, women began to want things they didn’t have before. And as this narrator knows when people want this they don’t have, havoc is reached. Women began to search for magic, leaving their homes to find something they thought would make their lives better. They would come back, but their children wouldn’t know them then. It was, for the kingdom, a time of despair; there was too much fancy in having something only men had had before for women to resist. And so it was decided, there would be magic no longer. As women began to trudge back to their homes with nothing, men were forced to forget the powers they had. Magic was gone.

And that the narrator says, is the moral of the story.

“You can’t be a wizard.”

You don’t even know how long it’s been since wizards died away, or if it was so long ago that it could just be stories. But you know he’s not a wizard.

“Did you really think we’d just stop existing?” He pauses, breaths as if he hasn’t properly breathed for a long time and looks at you.

“Some people make themselves wizards, others have no choice. You can’t kill that part of a person.” Something has come into his eye, a spark almost, like magic you think.

Perhaps, just perhaps, you think he may be telling the truth.

“Lad, magic exists, it’s not just a story and it’s not just the past. Take a seat won’t you.”

You realise there’s a chair with its back to the fireplace and you sit down, facing the man.

“Did you put the package in my shoe?”

“No.” He leans forward, smiles and you know you see a spark of magic in his eye. “You did.”

You don’t know what to think, but then for a moment it seems like a perfectly reasonable answer. How else could the package that was in your shirt have gotten into your shoe if you had not done something about it. But the moment does not last long and you’re left wondering what the man is talking about.

“I don’t think it was.”

There’s a knock somewhere in the house and you think it’s the door.

“That will be Magalouf,” you say.

He smiles, and you’re worried so you wonder why.

“Then you’d better hide.”

You rise, go out of the room and down the hall away from the front. As you pass the stairs the servant comes rushing down, throwing pins into her hair. You don’t think she sees you. There’s a sole door at the end of the hall and with no other choice you open it and find yourself in the kitchen. It’s not very big and terribly messy and you wonder if you may as well give it a tidy whilst you’re there. There’s a pot sitting by the door to outside and you see streaks of some food covering it, that’s where you’d start. But then you hear voices and press your ear against the door.

The voices are hushed, kitchen doors are always heavy so the smell doesn’t seep through the wood, but you can hear him. It’s a voice not often heard, but is unmistakable.

You give up on trying to hear what they’re saying and move farther into the kitchen. As you’re feet touch a wet patch on the floor you realise you’ve left your shoes in the other room. You’re not sure how well acquainted Magalouf is with your shoes, you doubt he’s well acquainted, but you feel he’ll be able to guess.

Now to butt in this narrator must say that they’ve just realised a very good coincidence has happened, and something that was down out of chance, which did happen to change some things, now happens to work so perfectly well that it could only be planned. Or so it seems.

You take off your socks, though wet feet is the least of the fuss at the moment. You regret that you hadn’t grabbed the boots as you rushed out of the room. It would’ve been easy to grab the shoes right by your feet and take them with you into the kitchen but you didn’t. Instead they’re on the floor by the chair with its back to the fireplace. You lean against the table in the middle thinking it would be nice if they were under it. The shoes are making you worry, you only hope that Magalouf doesn’t leave the hallway. You know Magalouf is not a man of many words and perhaps he will not talk long.

With nerves creeping inside you, you return your ear to the door. Footsteps are heading towards you, and you know that one is not a woman’s shoes. Then the noise turns and you realise they’re in the lounge room. You can see your shoes sitting there, right by the empty fireplace, Magalouf walking in.

The footsteps are retreating, you hear the door open and a pause as if a hand is being shook. Then there’s the thump and Magalouf is gone. Still cautious you wait against the table. When you see the door begin to open you panic for a moment, but then Mr Morgan comes into view.

“He’s gone?”

“I told him you’d just left.”

It’s when he says this that you realise you’re never going back to your master’s house. As soon as you enter that house Magalouf will be there waiting for you, and you’ll never go out that door with a beating heart again.

It doesn’t bother you that you’ve left things behind, but already you miss it. It was comfortable, something that you could do. You don’t know when you’ll be comfortable again.

“If you run you could make it back before him.”

You shake your head.

“Well come on then, our talk was interrupted.” He turns and walks out, but then returns. “And bring your shoes.”