Do Unto Others

Corrie Haldane

 

 

Wilfred the Wretched peered through the smoke rising from his cauldron. He’d followed the spell’s arcane instructions precisely, and anticipated a glittering reward.

After months of digging through moldy tombs and booby-trapped dungeons he’d found an equally moldy and booby-trapped scroll. Unreadable as well. He’d deactivated the wards and learned Ancient Wysarding just to understand it. It was a spell to transform lead into gold. A chance to turn his life around.  Wilfred parted with the last of his coins for absurdly expensive ingredients, sure he’d soon be rolling in gold.

Lugging his supplies back to St. Jerome’s, he cursed the commute. He’d told himself living in the cemetery would boost his wizardly power, but he knew it was for the cheap rent.

In his backyard of ominous headstones, Wilfred spent his nights grinding up ingredients, performing rituals, and chanting sacred words. But in the end, after the smoke cleared, his enormous and somewhat warty nose wrinkled in disgust. His cauldron was filled with something worth less than the lead he’d started with: manure. Probably sheep.

Wilfred kicked the cauldron. His boot split.

“I should’ve stayed on the farm and raised sheep, like Father wanted,” Wilfred muttered. “He said I wasn’t cut out to be a wizard, but did I listen?”

He threw the scroll to the ground, and pointed his wand. “Incinerate!”

Nothing.

“INCINERATE!”

It didn’t even warm up. But a moment of heartburn went raging through Wildred’s chest.

A contemptuous laugh interrupted his third attempt. He whirled.  Fabian the (self proclaimed) Fabulous, long a thorn twisting in Wilfred’s side, stepped from the shadows.

Fabian was handsome, skilled, and had been voted “Most Likely to Succeed”. He was also so very in love with himself and eager to share just how fabulous he was.

“H’lo Wilf.”

“Hellooo, Fab. Taken yourself out on any dates lately?”

“I just dined at the Consequential Constabulary. The food was superb and I was fabulous company. Hm, gold not appearing for you? Need a hand venting your frustration?” Fabian grinned and flicked his wand. The scroll burst into flames.

Wilfred scowled. Offense is the best defense, Wilfred’s father often said. He’d been talking about managing particularly difficult sheep, but the advice seemed appropriate now. Wilfred straightened to his pitiful height and glared up at Fabian.

“Why don’t you trot off and look in a mirror, Fab?”

Fabian reached into the folds of his velvet robe and pulled out a scroll. He flipped it open with a flourish. “I have business to attend to.”

Wilfrid squinted:

 

Meet Your Mentor Event

 at

JEROME’S ETERNAL REST

 ~ Great Wizards of Days Gone By

Wish to Pair Up and Advise Young Wizards ~

Fabian the Fabulous Sole Soul Mediator for St. Jerome’s

~ Bid for the Privilege of a Great Wizard’s Advice! ~

~ Winter Solstice, Midnight ~

Winning donations (mostly) for the benefit of St. Jerome’s Restoration Fund

All Donations Final

 

Wilfred snorted. “As if any great wizard wants to come back and watch over bumbling newbies.”

“It’s the latest trend amongst dead wizards.”

“They’re looking for laughs?”

 “For a chance to pass on their legacy! I have an advisor already. Please say hello, Sir Cedric.”

A pale wraith swept out from an amulet at Fabian’s neck, and took form before them. “Hello, Wilfred.” His whisper was deep and hissing.

“See?” Fabian crowed. “Sir Cedric, please, why didn’t that lead into gold spell work for WillFreddy here?”

“Aside from missing skill, missing ingredients,” Cedric intoned. “Ground cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves. The spell books leave them out, but elite wizards know.”

“I’m no bumpkin,” huffed Wilfred. “That’s pumpkin spice.”

“It is now,” roared Cedric, “but it was first part of the quest for gold.”

Wilfred clenched his teeth. The knowledge was of no use now — no money. He glanced mournfully at the pile of ash. And no scroll.

Fabian handed Wilfred his event announcement. “Hope to see you there.”

 

Wilfred attempted to rid himself of the announcement. He locked it in a magical chest, fumigated it with banishing incense, and ran it through an enchanted paper shredder. But it kept turning up back in his pocket. Once again Fabian was making a fool of him.

The night of the event, Wilfred decided to cast a sleeping spell on the cemetery spirits. Noone will bid if  noone’s awake to be bid for, he reasoned. But when he performed the spell, awakened spirits swarmed up in droves, and he fell like a log, asleep before he hit the ground.

He woke up freezing cold, with event attendees tripping over him. And there was Fabian, by the tallest and grandest of the headstones, addressing eager young wizards.

He tried to crawl away but Fabian noticed.

“Wilfred!” he called out sweetly. “So glad you could make it.”

All eyes turned toward Wilfred, on all fours in the grass.  His sighed. Not only had he failed to stop the event, he’d become its comic centerpiece. He stood up, arranged his cape, and faced his nemesis, his teeth bared in what was more snarl than smile. “How could I resist?”

Fabian led the group through the cemetery, stopping at various headstones to recite the name and talents of the wizard buried beneath. The offerings were lively and inventive.

“A hex that turns pasta into lima beans!”

“One enemy turned into a duck!”

“A fake unicorn horn!”

“Don’t be insulting!” said Fabian.

“A faux unicorn horn!”

“The winning donation!”

Wilfred remained silent. He found he wanted to bid, but what did he have to offer except curses that didn’t work?  Lots of those.

Finally, Fabian stopped by a lone headstone at the edge of the cemetery. “There’s not much known about Maxwell the Mysterious.  He was… mysterious, and… liked to wander off. Shall we start the offerings?”

The few wizards still in attendance took a calculating look at the crumbling, overgrown tombstone and walked away. Competition gone, Wilfred felt through his pockets: a pebble, a (long) list of failed curses, a receipt from the tailor for mending his robe again, and… a penny.  It might be lucky. “One Lucky Penny!” he shouted.

Fabian sighed. “The winning donation, I guess.”

Wilfred handed over his penny of dubious luckiness with a grin and scrawled his signature on the donation form.

Fabian tapped the headstone with his wand, mumbled incoherently, and… a pale wraith rose from the ground, zipped behind the headstone, and peeked out at him.

Not very wizardly behavior, Wilfred thought. “Sir Maxwell?”

“Oh dear,” said a tremulous voice. “I believe there’s been a mix-up. I’m not Maxwell. I’m Granny Rose.”

Wilfred turned on Fabian, who was slipping off into the darkness. “I want my donation back!”

“So sorry, Wilfred,” Fabian said, “Really.” He shook out the scroll Wilfred had just signed and pointed to the fine print: All donations final.

 

In the days that followed, Wilfred learned that Granny Rose was no help at all when it came to spells. She didn’t know any. And the only ‘arcane knowledge’ she had was the proper way to fold sheets, which would come in handy if he ever got any.

She followed him about while he tried to work magic, and encouraged him every step of the way. No matter how badly he went wrong.

One evening, he was working on a simple hiccoughing curse. Something even a novice could breeze through. A shopkeeper had sold him a bad batch of Eye of Newt, and Wilfred wanted to teach him the error of his ways.

He measured out ingredients, checked the position of the moon, and called out: “Singultus persistus!”

But as the smoke cleared, he began to hiccough uncontrollably.

Granny Rose, ever the optimist, told him cheerfully, “You’ll get it next time, dearie. You were so close, and that smoke was such a pretty shade of purple.”

Wilfred growled in between hiccoughs and stomped off towards his hut at the edge of the cemetery. Passing “Maxwell’s” headstone he stopped, and whirled around so suddenly he felt a cool draft. Granny Rose had passed right through him.

“What were you doing in that grave, anyway?” Wilfred hiccoughed. “What happened to Maxwell?”

“Ooh, that’s a tale!” she said. “Maxwell’s body disappeared right before the burial. Went on walkabout some say. The gravedigger didn’t want to get into trouble for losing him, and my body was nearby, slowly decomposing. My family would have seen to my arrangements eventually, of course. They were just so busy that year…”

Wilfred tried to ignore his pang of sympathy. After all, he was the one who’d been cheated of a potentially lucky penny.

“I didn’t mind, really,” Granny Rose continued. “The company here is so interesting. So many wise old wizards to talk to. I just wish my final resting place wasn’t quite so… bleak. It’s not exactly what I’m like. Was like.”

Wilfred watched Granny Rose circle her plot mournfully. The crumbling headstone was overgrown with scraggly weeds and thorn bushes. She deserved better.  And she’d been so kind.  He could at least attempt some magic for her.

He waved his wand and hiccoughed, “Beautify!”

The weeds and thorn bushes burst into flower, and the gravestone, looking brand new, now bore Granny Rose’s name. His jaw dropped. He’d done magic! And his hiccoughs had stopped.

Granny Rose gasped, but she wasn’t looking at her grave. She was looking at him.

“What? What happened?” Wilfred ran his hands over his face and felt something different. His enormous and somewhat warty nose now felt decidedly smaller, and not the least warty.

“You’re quite handsome, dearie,” Granny Rose said. “And my grave looks wonderful too. You did a lovely job with that spell. I knew you had it in you.”

Wilfred the Wretched might not have been the most talented wizard around, but he wasn’t a complete fool. He had a theory, and quickly retrieved his cauldron with the hope of testing it.

He brewed up a good luck potion, one he’d made often before without success. But this time, rather than drinking it himself, he poured it into a saucer and put it down for the scraggly cemetery cat, who quickly lapped it up.

Soon after, a young woman came by with flowers for a grave.  “Fluffy!” she shouted, joyfully scooped the purring cat up in her arms, and carried him off.

“It worked,” Wilfred whispered. “My second successful spell! In one day.” He spun around, tripped on the hem of his robe, and tumbled to the ground.

Something pressed into his back. He rolled over, pushed the grass aside, and stared at his grandfather’s long-lost grimoire.

“Granny Rose, I believe my luck is finally changing.” He laughed.

“I always knew it would, dearie.” She smiled and patted him on the back.

From that day on, Wilfred cast many successful spells, but always for someone else’s benefit. The fact that he often came out ahead too was a fortuitous side effect.  Patrons flocked to him like… sheep.

Eventually, he refused to let anyone call him Wilfred the Wretched anymore. Going forward, he was Wilfred the Well-Intentioned. 

When Fabian tried to snag Wilfred’s good luck for himself by buying ten bottles worth, he was indeed a man changed for the better, because what Wilfred actually gave him was a kindness potion.

And when Wilfred noticed Granny Rose shyly flirting with Tiberius the Timid, a dashing wizardly spirit from a graveyard across town, he set to work on a love charm. If some of it happened to rub off on him, well, it wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it?

 

 

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