Harold
stirred in his bed, the morning sun being resisted but not defeated by his
frankly vile brown curtains. He liked them, but by all objective measurements
of beauty he was wrong to do so. With a groan he looked over at his digital
alarm clock and saw that he still had twenty minutes until it would sound.
‘Typical. I’ll never get back to sleep before that goes off.’ He lamented to himself in the midst of his pillow stack. He rolled over, but his pyjamas didn’t follow suit, constricting themselves around his neck and pulling on him.
‘Ugh, blasted things.’ Harold cursed as he wriggled his shoulders and tried to shuffle the clothing back into place. The sounds of fabric rubbing against fabric seemed obnoxiously loud in his tired stupor. They also sounded a lot more wooden than he would have anticipated. Harold ceased his rustling and listened. The scratching sounds continued, albeit sounding like they were farther away.
‘What on Earth is th… oooohh’ the memory of the previous night came flooding back; he really had to stop putting off his problems and just going to bed. With embarrassment and annoyance, Harold remembered that he'd summoned an eldritch abomination the previous evening and was yet to get rid of it. Much like yesterday’s washing up, it was still roaming around the kitchen, waiting judgementally to be dealt with and probably racing towards decay. Sometimes, being a magus was more of a hassle than it was worth.
‘Typical. I’ll never get back to sleep before that goes off.’ He lamented to himself in the midst of his pillow stack. He rolled over, but his pyjamas didn’t follow suit, constricting themselves around his neck and pulling on him.
‘Ugh, blasted things.’ Harold cursed as he wriggled his shoulders and tried to shuffle the clothing back into place. The sounds of fabric rubbing against fabric seemed obnoxiously loud in his tired stupor. They also sounded a lot more wooden than he would have anticipated. Harold ceased his rustling and listened. The scratching sounds continued, albeit sounding like they were farther away.
‘What on Earth is th… oooohh’ the memory of the previous night came flooding back; he really had to stop putting off his problems and just going to bed. With embarrassment and annoyance, Harold remembered that he'd summoned an eldritch abomination the previous evening and was yet to get rid of it. Much like yesterday’s washing up, it was still roaming around the kitchen, waiting judgementally to be dealt with and probably racing towards decay. Sometimes, being a magus was more of a hassle than it was worth.
In
the ages of mythology, magic had been commonplace. The animal-headed Egyptian
gods accepted sacrifices, the titans and men of Greece were victims to the
whims of Mount Olympus and humble witchcraft was responsible for every bad crop
in continental Europe. But as time went by and technology moved on, magic began
to fade from the world. The great gods were stripped of their powers,
fantastical beings disappeared from the face of the Earth, and of all the young
women executed as witches, but a handful were truly capable of magic. The
decline of magic happened almost in perfect harmony with the improvement of
dental care, but in the modern world of industry, technology and affordable
toothbrushes, one bastion of arcane power and crooked oral enamel remained. A
causal relationship between oral hygiene and arcane powers is yet to be proved,
but anecdotal evidence appears to be undeniable.
Every one hundred years, a grand magus of great magical prowess is born onto the Earth by the will and whim of the otherworldly powers. This grand magus took a role of supreme authority, commanding and teaching other, lesser magic users and solving the problems that only the arcane arts could influence. For generations, none but the grand magus themselves could ever predict the identity of the next grand magus, but cabals of evil grew powerful over the years. They worked in shadows and conspired amongst themselves to learn the secrets of the grand magi. After generations of sabotage and conflict, a damning curse was finally laid upon the line of grand magi, stilling the hearts of the chosen in their infancy and leaving the world devoid of sorcery. So effective was the curse that there had been no mage in adulthood for over 400 years prior to the birth of Harold.
The line of saboteurs had disappeared sometime during the great wars of the twentieth century, leaving none to continue the clandestine crusade against magic and maintain the curse. There were none in place even to detect Harold when he survived through his childhood, let alone have his assassinated. He was the first magus free to practice the magical arts in generations, but in the absence of magic the world had moved beyond any reliance on magi. Certainly, no-one in West Turnton had thought they needed a grand magus before Harold had been born. Once he became active, those suspicions were fully confirmed.
The problem was that although Harold was grand, wasn't a particularly good magus; he wasn't even a particularly good person. He kept an immaculate garden though, which he insisted was the product of his own honest hard work, but was really a needless form of exchange magic. His neighbour Margery suspected as much, looking over at Harold's spotless lawn from her own untamed jungle of weeds. She'd long given up on trying to pull them out – she would spend hours meticulously un-rooting invasive plants from her lawn only to find that they had all reappeared the very next day. Whenever Margery mentioned this to Harold he magnanimously replied that he didn't mind at all. It wasn’t how he’d leave his own garden, of course, but it wasn’t affecting him so why should he be concerned? Margery’s business was her own, he said, and he wouldn’t interfere.
Harold’s magical education and instruction had been severely hindered by the lack of any other magic users in existence for the last 4 centuries. With so little expertise around, he hadn’t even realised his own status as a grand magus until his late teens, by which point he’d already got a job in the local shop, and had no real time for arcane studies alongside his college work.
Once he had achieved his qualifications, Harold gave a cursory look to magical education. In his spare time, he began to consult library books on famous wizards and attempted to trace their writing. With no wizards actively practicing magic in recent history, let alone writing anything they were doing down, reference texts were both patchy and outdated. As such, Harold’s methods and approach to problem solving were often somewhat archaic; Merlin’s teachings featured heavily, which is tremendous for a court wizard protecting a glorious monarch, but less appropriate for life in a suburb of Surrey.
Given the relative dearth of reference texts, Harold took a parallel path of forging his own magical styles in order to increase his repertoire. After many years of hard study, alchemical experimentation and blind trials, Harold became a master and a pioneer of beeomancy – the sorcery of bee manipulation. Harold singlehandedly put the honey makers of West Turnton out of business and indirectly led to over a thousand stingings in his first year alone. He considered this to be his greatest personal achievement in the field of magic.
Every one hundred years, a grand magus of great magical prowess is born onto the Earth by the will and whim of the otherworldly powers. This grand magus took a role of supreme authority, commanding and teaching other, lesser magic users and solving the problems that only the arcane arts could influence. For generations, none but the grand magus themselves could ever predict the identity of the next grand magus, but cabals of evil grew powerful over the years. They worked in shadows and conspired amongst themselves to learn the secrets of the grand magi. After generations of sabotage and conflict, a damning curse was finally laid upon the line of grand magi, stilling the hearts of the chosen in their infancy and leaving the world devoid of sorcery. So effective was the curse that there had been no mage in adulthood for over 400 years prior to the birth of Harold.
The line of saboteurs had disappeared sometime during the great wars of the twentieth century, leaving none to continue the clandestine crusade against magic and maintain the curse. There were none in place even to detect Harold when he survived through his childhood, let alone have his assassinated. He was the first magus free to practice the magical arts in generations, but in the absence of magic the world had moved beyond any reliance on magi. Certainly, no-one in West Turnton had thought they needed a grand magus before Harold had been born. Once he became active, those suspicions were fully confirmed.
The problem was that although Harold was grand, wasn't a particularly good magus; he wasn't even a particularly good person. He kept an immaculate garden though, which he insisted was the product of his own honest hard work, but was really a needless form of exchange magic. His neighbour Margery suspected as much, looking over at Harold's spotless lawn from her own untamed jungle of weeds. She'd long given up on trying to pull them out – she would spend hours meticulously un-rooting invasive plants from her lawn only to find that they had all reappeared the very next day. Whenever Margery mentioned this to Harold he magnanimously replied that he didn't mind at all. It wasn’t how he’d leave his own garden, of course, but it wasn’t affecting him so why should he be concerned? Margery’s business was her own, he said, and he wouldn’t interfere.
Harold’s magical education and instruction had been severely hindered by the lack of any other magic users in existence for the last 4 centuries. With so little expertise around, he hadn’t even realised his own status as a grand magus until his late teens, by which point he’d already got a job in the local shop, and had no real time for arcane studies alongside his college work.
Once he had achieved his qualifications, Harold gave a cursory look to magical education. In his spare time, he began to consult library books on famous wizards and attempted to trace their writing. With no wizards actively practicing magic in recent history, let alone writing anything they were doing down, reference texts were both patchy and outdated. As such, Harold’s methods and approach to problem solving were often somewhat archaic; Merlin’s teachings featured heavily, which is tremendous for a court wizard protecting a glorious monarch, but less appropriate for life in a suburb of Surrey.
Given the relative dearth of reference texts, Harold took a parallel path of forging his own magical styles in order to increase his repertoire. After many years of hard study, alchemical experimentation and blind trials, Harold became a master and a pioneer of beeomancy – the sorcery of bee manipulation. Harold singlehandedly put the honey makers of West Turnton out of business and indirectly led to over a thousand stingings in his first year alone. He considered this to be his greatest personal achievement in the field of magic.
Harold
lurched out of bed and pulled his dressing gown around himself. He’d bought one
with a hood so it felt more like a wizard’s robe, but he rarely put it up; it
just felt silly. After slipping his feet into the pair of slippers neatly
placed next to the bed, he shambled down the stairs to deal with his
abomination.
Waiting in the kitchen was the grim result of yesterday’s work. It looked like a man-sized chicken drawn by a three-year old, with the legs of a donkey to add flair and stuffed full with the bones of a rhino. Harold looked upon it with a quiet mixture of regret and sadness; he’d never really got the hang of summoning spells, which is why he favoured the training-wheels of exchange magic in most cases. Cleaning up the mess of a bad summon was enough to make Harold practice it infrequently, so he hadn’t improved in the last few decades. For someone without tuition though, he told himself, he was doing a jolly fine job. Merlin would have been spinning in his grave.
“OK, bugger off. Get out of my house.” Harold told the abomination, making shooing motions with his arms and directing it towards the front door. “Go on.” Harold’s banishment spells had also been a non-starter.
The abomination regarded Harold and recognised him as its summoner. Under normal circumstances it would have been bound to follow his every instruction, but this summoning had been poor at best. The runes painted onto the kitchen floor appeared not to be blood but a strange mix of beef-dripping and tomato puree, the lines of salt were a low sodium alternative, and the skulls on display had been salvaged from a nearby mousetrap. It was an embarrassing show and did not lend itself to commanding respect and dominance.
The summoned body was too poor to be capable of true speech, so the abomination articulated its thoughts by tipping its head slowly to one side, continuing past the point of broken bones until it was completely upside down.
“Don’t give me that look! You know what I mean, now get out.” Harold told it indignantly, folding his arms over his middle-aged paunch and fixing the beast with a stern glare through his spectacles. The abomination completed the rotation of its head in a chorus of crunching and grinding bones. The skin had already been stretched over the rhino bones, but on top of that it was now horribly twisted and taut. This was exactly the sort of thing that Harold hadn’t wanted next to the fruit bowl.
“No amount of head twisting is going to make you welcome. Shoo!” Harold grabbed a broom from the corner of the room and swept aggressively. The abomination wasn’t going to tangle with cleaning equipment wielded in anger, so it span on its hind legs and lopsidedly hobbled away, rocking violently as each leg came down at a different height. Its distended shoulder knocked a painting off the wall of the hallway, spilling broken glass onto the floor, and despite having already deployed the broom, Harold was still aggravated. When the abomination reached the front door it found that it didn’t have the necessary appendages to operate the door, and its efforts to peck the handle down proved futile.
Harold shimmied past the grotesque horror and opened the door for it.
“There you go.” He said passive-aggressively, as if the creature had been deliberately stalling. The abomination looked at him with an upside down head again, as if contemplating that its freedom was no longer so appealing. Harold shimmied back and grabbed the broom again.
“I’m warning you.” he threatened, with bristles aimed directly at the beast. It pecked towards Harold in a show of displeasure at being shown the business end of the implement. Harold wasn’t going to balk at a fight for his own home however, and he whacked the abomination squarely where the rhino pelvis seemed to be resting, which was somewhere in the chest region. With a yelp and a peck, the abomination ran out of the front door and along the driveway, crashing into Harold’s wheelie bin as it did so. Rubbish bags tumbled onto the pavement, promptly getting torn open as the abomination struggled to walk over them. It bucked in annoyance before regaining its footing, and then scampered its way down the street and out of sight.
“Oh for goodness sakes! Bloody vandal.” Harold shouted at the beast as he looked at the liberally spread rubbish on the driveway and the road. “I ought to grab him by the scruff of his neck and make him clean the lot up!” he told no-one in particular. Even if someone had been around to hear him they wouldn’t have believed that he’d do it.
As if his own bin being toppled wasn’t enough, Harold was incensed to see that Margery's bin was overhanging his driveway YET AGAIN. The thin wall which separated the two driveways was narrower than a single wheelie bin, meaning that there was always overhang if a bin was placed in front of it. Margery always made sure that her own driveway was clear, the hag.
Harold had enchanted his wheelie bins to put themselves on the kerb every week, avoiding the hassle of doing it himself. As if to spite his good idea, Margery’s actions forced him to go out and manually move a bin anyway. Too many times he had been forced to shift it back over her driveway; too many times had he seen the aftermath of a badger knocking it over onto his petunias; the time for retribution was at hand.
He stomped his way out to the drive and grabbed the devil's wheelie bin roughly by the handle. The lid flapped open as he yanked the bin, slapping his knuckles and further earning his ire. Whilst it was open though, he took the opportunity to put his own spilled rubbish inside – a fitting punishment for Margery using his space. He wheeled the bin away and left it squarely in the centre of Margery’s drive, ensuring that if she tried to drive around it she’d have to either scrape against the wall or crush her magnolias.
Margery appeared almost immediately at her front door; Harold supposed that she wasn’t bat-like in appearance alone, having clearly heard the rumble of wheels from inside the house. He didn’t acknowledge her though, as he was deep in incantation. A wind emanated from the wheelie bin, causing his loose dressing gown to flap and dead leaves to dance elegantly around him.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY BIN!?” Margery shouted over the eldritch commotion. Harold ignored her, continuing with his spell-craft.
“PUT THAT BACK! IT’S BLOCKING MY DRIVEWAY!” she continued. The wind died sharply, not dissipating gradually but suddenly disappearing outright.
“Good! It’s your own bloody bin, and I told you to keep it on your own side, but you still insisted on blocking my access. Only a true king may pull this bin from your driveway now, Margery.” Harold told her smugly. “I hope it was worth it!” Monarch anchoring spells were one of the few things he'd managed to learn from Merlin.
“You petty oaf!” Margery shouted back him, but he ignored her with his held high and re-entered his own home. She immediately rushed out and attempted to put her bin in front of the wall, but found that it was impossible to move. She swore under her breath, cursing her non-regal lineage, and went back inside.
Waiting in the kitchen was the grim result of yesterday’s work. It looked like a man-sized chicken drawn by a three-year old, with the legs of a donkey to add flair and stuffed full with the bones of a rhino. Harold looked upon it with a quiet mixture of regret and sadness; he’d never really got the hang of summoning spells, which is why he favoured the training-wheels of exchange magic in most cases. Cleaning up the mess of a bad summon was enough to make Harold practice it infrequently, so he hadn’t improved in the last few decades. For someone without tuition though, he told himself, he was doing a jolly fine job. Merlin would have been spinning in his grave.
“OK, bugger off. Get out of my house.” Harold told the abomination, making shooing motions with his arms and directing it towards the front door. “Go on.” Harold’s banishment spells had also been a non-starter.
The abomination regarded Harold and recognised him as its summoner. Under normal circumstances it would have been bound to follow his every instruction, but this summoning had been poor at best. The runes painted onto the kitchen floor appeared not to be blood but a strange mix of beef-dripping and tomato puree, the lines of salt were a low sodium alternative, and the skulls on display had been salvaged from a nearby mousetrap. It was an embarrassing show and did not lend itself to commanding respect and dominance.
The summoned body was too poor to be capable of true speech, so the abomination articulated its thoughts by tipping its head slowly to one side, continuing past the point of broken bones until it was completely upside down.
“Don’t give me that look! You know what I mean, now get out.” Harold told it indignantly, folding his arms over his middle-aged paunch and fixing the beast with a stern glare through his spectacles. The abomination completed the rotation of its head in a chorus of crunching and grinding bones. The skin had already been stretched over the rhino bones, but on top of that it was now horribly twisted and taut. This was exactly the sort of thing that Harold hadn’t wanted next to the fruit bowl.
“No amount of head twisting is going to make you welcome. Shoo!” Harold grabbed a broom from the corner of the room and swept aggressively. The abomination wasn’t going to tangle with cleaning equipment wielded in anger, so it span on its hind legs and lopsidedly hobbled away, rocking violently as each leg came down at a different height. Its distended shoulder knocked a painting off the wall of the hallway, spilling broken glass onto the floor, and despite having already deployed the broom, Harold was still aggravated. When the abomination reached the front door it found that it didn’t have the necessary appendages to operate the door, and its efforts to peck the handle down proved futile.
Harold shimmied past the grotesque horror and opened the door for it.
“There you go.” He said passive-aggressively, as if the creature had been deliberately stalling. The abomination looked at him with an upside down head again, as if contemplating that its freedom was no longer so appealing. Harold shimmied back and grabbed the broom again.
“I’m warning you.” he threatened, with bristles aimed directly at the beast. It pecked towards Harold in a show of displeasure at being shown the business end of the implement. Harold wasn’t going to balk at a fight for his own home however, and he whacked the abomination squarely where the rhino pelvis seemed to be resting, which was somewhere in the chest region. With a yelp and a peck, the abomination ran out of the front door and along the driveway, crashing into Harold’s wheelie bin as it did so. Rubbish bags tumbled onto the pavement, promptly getting torn open as the abomination struggled to walk over them. It bucked in annoyance before regaining its footing, and then scampered its way down the street and out of sight.
“Oh for goodness sakes! Bloody vandal.” Harold shouted at the beast as he looked at the liberally spread rubbish on the driveway and the road. “I ought to grab him by the scruff of his neck and make him clean the lot up!” he told no-one in particular. Even if someone had been around to hear him they wouldn’t have believed that he’d do it.
As if his own bin being toppled wasn’t enough, Harold was incensed to see that Margery's bin was overhanging his driveway YET AGAIN. The thin wall which separated the two driveways was narrower than a single wheelie bin, meaning that there was always overhang if a bin was placed in front of it. Margery always made sure that her own driveway was clear, the hag.
Harold had enchanted his wheelie bins to put themselves on the kerb every week, avoiding the hassle of doing it himself. As if to spite his good idea, Margery’s actions forced him to go out and manually move a bin anyway. Too many times he had been forced to shift it back over her driveway; too many times had he seen the aftermath of a badger knocking it over onto his petunias; the time for retribution was at hand.
He stomped his way out to the drive and grabbed the devil's wheelie bin roughly by the handle. The lid flapped open as he yanked the bin, slapping his knuckles and further earning his ire. Whilst it was open though, he took the opportunity to put his own spilled rubbish inside – a fitting punishment for Margery using his space. He wheeled the bin away and left it squarely in the centre of Margery’s drive, ensuring that if she tried to drive around it she’d have to either scrape against the wall or crush her magnolias.
Margery appeared almost immediately at her front door; Harold supposed that she wasn’t bat-like in appearance alone, having clearly heard the rumble of wheels from inside the house. He didn’t acknowledge her though, as he was deep in incantation. A wind emanated from the wheelie bin, causing his loose dressing gown to flap and dead leaves to dance elegantly around him.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY BIN!?” Margery shouted over the eldritch commotion. Harold ignored her, continuing with his spell-craft.
“PUT THAT BACK! IT’S BLOCKING MY DRIVEWAY!” she continued. The wind died sharply, not dissipating gradually but suddenly disappearing outright.
“Good! It’s your own bloody bin, and I told you to keep it on your own side, but you still insisted on blocking my access. Only a true king may pull this bin from your driveway now, Margery.” Harold told her smugly. “I hope it was worth it!” Monarch anchoring spells were one of the few things he'd managed to learn from Merlin.
“You petty oaf!” Margery shouted back him, but he ignored her with his held high and re-entered his own home. She immediately rushed out and attempted to put her bin in front of the wall, but found that it was impossible to move. She swore under her breath, cursing her non-regal lineage, and went back inside.
Harold
sat at his kitchen table for breakfast whilst his enchanted broom swept up the
broken glass in the hallway. In days gone by Harold had cast spells on the
broom so that it would not only pile up the sweepings but dispose of them
entirely. Where the broom had been putting all the sweepings had been a mystery
to Harold for many years, but all became clear when his gutters started to
overflow despite the lack of any moss or leaves nearby to his roof. A simple
modification to the enchantment solved that problem, with the added bonus of
clogging Margery’s gutters instead.
The kettle was busily boiling water for a cup of coffee, eyeing the dishcloth with an air of suspicion. It was a replacement of the previous, worn out cloth and the kettle couldn’t help but feel resentful. Most dishcloths ignored the kettle’s need for cleaning, treating it as an eternally clean surface rather than another critical utensil for washing. Months could go by, grime building gradually, without even so much as a wipe over. The previous dishcloth had been different, though. It had taken time to clean the kettle inside and out on at least a weekly basis with suds and everything! The new cloth would have an awful lot to live up to, although if the kettle forced itself to be fair, it supposed that Harold’s enchantment was the primary factor involved here, rather than the dishcloths work ethic.
The cupboards didn’t know why the kettle was so riled up. They too were relative strangers to the touch of the cloth but they didn’t complain all day. After all, neither they nor the kettle were put inside Harold’s mouth, and therefore they didn’t need such regular attention. Being cleaned too often would lead to a greater chance of developing allergies anyway, the cupboards had heard, so perhaps their low-frequency cleaning schedule was for the best.
Little did either of them know, but the new dishcloth was under the same enchantment as all of its predecessors. Harold didn’t enchant all of them separately, he just transferred the magic over. The dishcloth kept this as its most closely guarded secret, adopting a new personality with every new body to keep the rest of the kitchen guessing. It was probably a sociopath.
The kettle was busily boiling water for a cup of coffee, eyeing the dishcloth with an air of suspicion. It was a replacement of the previous, worn out cloth and the kettle couldn’t help but feel resentful. Most dishcloths ignored the kettle’s need for cleaning, treating it as an eternally clean surface rather than another critical utensil for washing. Months could go by, grime building gradually, without even so much as a wipe over. The previous dishcloth had been different, though. It had taken time to clean the kettle inside and out on at least a weekly basis with suds and everything! The new cloth would have an awful lot to live up to, although if the kettle forced itself to be fair, it supposed that Harold’s enchantment was the primary factor involved here, rather than the dishcloths work ethic.
The cupboards didn’t know why the kettle was so riled up. They too were relative strangers to the touch of the cloth but they didn’t complain all day. After all, neither they nor the kettle were put inside Harold’s mouth, and therefore they didn’t need such regular attention. Being cleaned too often would lead to a greater chance of developing allergies anyway, the cupboards had heard, so perhaps their low-frequency cleaning schedule was for the best.
Little did either of them know, but the new dishcloth was under the same enchantment as all of its predecessors. Harold didn’t enchant all of them separately, he just transferred the magic over. The dishcloth kept this as its most closely guarded secret, adopting a new personality with every new body to keep the rest of the kitchen guessing. It was probably a sociopath.
Harold
was ignorant to the politics of his kitchen as one of his spoons served him
breakfast. A shirt and trousers were attempting to covertly slip themselves on
the magus’ body while he sat and ate, but because Harold was seated they were
destined to struggle. When he felt a shirt crumpling itself between his back
and the chair he stood up to give it some access, stumbling on the trousers
which were tangled around his ankles. He span to one side and fell face down
onto the ground, an opportunity that both shirt and trousers seized to ambush
him.
“Blasted clothes sneaking up on me.” Harold grizzled as he stood himself back up. He’d long ago cast a softening spell on his floors so that falling down would not hurt as much, but it did mean that heavy furniture had a tendency to sink. His fridge-freezer was half a foot below the floor level, so the lower door was completely useless.
Once his breakfast was eaten, his clothes were put on and his work bag had presented itself to him, Harold stepped into his shoes and exited the house. As he opened the garage door he was pleased to overhear Margery arguing with the binmen.
“How many roaming monarchs do you think there are in West Turnton?" She shouted, clearly agitated. “Why can’t you just take the bags out?”
“Health and safety. Can’t lift heavy bags out of the bin like that because it might hurt my back.”
“It’s not full of gravel for Christ’s sake! It’s wrappers and empty yoghurt pots.”
“Yoghurt pots and wrappers should be in separate bags. Are you mixing your recycling and waste?” The binman said interrogatively. He opened the lid of the wheelie bin and gasped.
“You are! And these bags are torn open as well, everything would fall out if I tried to lift it. What are you trying to pull here?”
“They weren’t when I put them in! They… this isn’t even my rubbish. Who… Harold!”
Harold laughed to himself as he got in the car. The day might hold something worthwhile after all.
“Blasted clothes sneaking up on me.” Harold grizzled as he stood himself back up. He’d long ago cast a softening spell on his floors so that falling down would not hurt as much, but it did mean that heavy furniture had a tendency to sink. His fridge-freezer was half a foot below the floor level, so the lower door was completely useless.
Once his breakfast was eaten, his clothes were put on and his work bag had presented itself to him, Harold stepped into his shoes and exited the house. As he opened the garage door he was pleased to overhear Margery arguing with the binmen.
“How many roaming monarchs do you think there are in West Turnton?" She shouted, clearly agitated. “Why can’t you just take the bags out?”
“Health and safety. Can’t lift heavy bags out of the bin like that because it might hurt my back.”
“It’s not full of gravel for Christ’s sake! It’s wrappers and empty yoghurt pots.”
“Yoghurt pots and wrappers should be in separate bags. Are you mixing your recycling and waste?” The binman said interrogatively. He opened the lid of the wheelie bin and gasped.
“You are! And these bags are torn open as well, everything would fall out if I tried to lift it. What are you trying to pull here?”
“They weren’t when I put them in! They… this isn’t even my rubbish. Who… Harold!”
Harold laughed to himself as he got in the car. The day might hold something worthwhile after all.
The
ancient texts all suggested that Harold should earn his gold by solving magical
problems, taking quests, and providing remedies. Better still would be to claim
an income as a royal advisor of course, but such vocations can be dangerous
depending on the monarch. Harold didn't really feel like he could make a living
from selling potions and medicines; not only did he know very few formulae, but
there was already a Boots store in West Turnton and it was much closer to the
bus stop than his house. Besides, no-one wanted a deer's blood tincture when
paracetamol only cost 30p. In lieu of any royal advisory positions being open, Harold
was forced to find work as project scheduler in order to pay his mortgage -
fulfilling magical contracts freelance wasn't seen as a reliable source of
income by any of the major banks.
Harold pulled into the busy car park outside the office. Parking had been getting steadily more challenging as the company grew, but nowadays if you wanted a space you had to arrive at approximately sunset the previous day. Crawling through the car park in vain hopes of finding a free space, Harold saw something which made his blood boil - a sporty looking vehicle parked neatly on the line between two spaces by what could only have been an anthropomorphised buttock. Here Harold was, just trying to get himself to his poxy job, and he was being prevented from doing so by the selfishness of a carrier-bag full of old shower-water masquerading as a human being.
Pulling up behind the offending vehicle, Harold closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Any observer might have thought he was attempting to cool his temper, but they would have been wrong. Deeply wrong. In moments, a quiet hum emanated from the surrounding air, which grew to a deafening buzz as a legion of bees descended onto the sports car. They swarmed its wing mirrors, clustered around the wheel arches and formed elegant patterns atop the roof, all at Harold’s command. Working as a single super-hive with the magus at its head, the bees worked quickly and efficiently around the car, encasing it in a honeycomb of poor parking decisions and actual honeycomb. The hive structure bulged from all orifices and crevices of the vehicle, as if someone had gone mad with a particularly rustic tube of decorators caulk, and distorted the car into a surrealist nightmare carriage. It was some of Harold’s finest work.
Viscerally and vindictively pleased by his masterpiece, Harold followed it up by bringing the bees all to one side of the car. Acting as a team, they pushed it along the ground until it was within the bounds of one space only, a feat which was easy enough for the bees but apparently terribly difficult for the ‘human’ driver. Dark smears of rubber remained on the ground to mark the car’s path, and Harold drove happily over them to park in his rightfully won space. Their work done, the bees dispersed back to their daily activities, feeling as if they’d all taken part in something much larger than themselves, and an improved sense of community.
Harold pulled into the busy car park outside the office. Parking had been getting steadily more challenging as the company grew, but nowadays if you wanted a space you had to arrive at approximately sunset the previous day. Crawling through the car park in vain hopes of finding a free space, Harold saw something which made his blood boil - a sporty looking vehicle parked neatly on the line between two spaces by what could only have been an anthropomorphised buttock. Here Harold was, just trying to get himself to his poxy job, and he was being prevented from doing so by the selfishness of a carrier-bag full of old shower-water masquerading as a human being.
Pulling up behind the offending vehicle, Harold closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Any observer might have thought he was attempting to cool his temper, but they would have been wrong. Deeply wrong. In moments, a quiet hum emanated from the surrounding air, which grew to a deafening buzz as a legion of bees descended onto the sports car. They swarmed its wing mirrors, clustered around the wheel arches and formed elegant patterns atop the roof, all at Harold’s command. Working as a single super-hive with the magus at its head, the bees worked quickly and efficiently around the car, encasing it in a honeycomb of poor parking decisions and actual honeycomb. The hive structure bulged from all orifices and crevices of the vehicle, as if someone had gone mad with a particularly rustic tube of decorators caulk, and distorted the car into a surrealist nightmare carriage. It was some of Harold’s finest work.
Viscerally and vindictively pleased by his masterpiece, Harold followed it up by bringing the bees all to one side of the car. Acting as a team, they pushed it along the ground until it was within the bounds of one space only, a feat which was easy enough for the bees but apparently terribly difficult for the ‘human’ driver. Dark smears of rubber remained on the ground to mark the car’s path, and Harold drove happily over them to park in his rightfully won space. Their work done, the bees dispersed back to their daily activities, feeling as if they’d all taken part in something much larger than themselves, and an improved sense of community.
Without
acknowledging any of his colleagues, Harold slumped down onto his chair in the
office. He grumpily switched on his computer, awaiting whatever bad news the
monkeys he tried to arrange and organise would surely have left for him.
Harold was not an adept computer user, being of that age to distrust them implicitly rather than learn about them. He had, however, decided to speed things up by enchanting his keyboard and mouse to do his bidding without contact. This tended to unnerve some of the other support staff and was the subject of a number of 'betterment chats' with the group formerly known as the disciplinary board. As his emails opened in front of him, he breathed a heavy, defeated sigh at the list of names and panicked subjects awaiting his attention. It was back to the daily hell.
Harold’s day, as with all work days, passed at half the rate of normal time. He’d repeatedly tried to cast a spell to speed up the passage of time inside the office, thereby allowing him to whip through his work day more quickly, but all he’d manged to achieve was an acceleration of deadlines. If anything, he’d made life much harder for himself.
After what Harold assessed to have been at least 6 hours, it was in fact mid-morning, and he noticed some commotion in the tea area to the side of the office. It seemed that Gary, one of the salespeople with a large mouth and an even larger need to be hit there, was setting out some cake, sweets, cheeses and fruit. It could mean only one thing - a birthday.
Harold had no time for office birthdays. He didn't understand why anyone should be forced to bring in treats just for being born, he didn't understand why anyone else in the office should be expected to care, and he certainly didn't understand why no-one ever invited him out to the drinks afterwards. He would have categorically declined every invitation anyway, but he still felt robbed of every opportunity to say no.
At 11 O’clock the tea area was plagued with milling employees all pretending to like Gary and wish him well, entirely as an excuse to eat cake and not do any work. They were clogging the small room, blocking any access Harold should have had to the kettle despite it clearly being time for his mid-morning tea top up.
Grumpily, Harold pushed away from his desk, grasped his mug by the handle (to grasp it elsewhere would have been foolish) and ambled towards the overly busy tea area. Entering the cloud of false sincerity and empty compliments, Harold was forced to huff and grunt requests at several people to excuse him, as if he was the one who should need to be excused. It was his right to get to the kettle, but these human obstacles were standing in a stupid place and getting in the way.
Harold was not an adept computer user, being of that age to distrust them implicitly rather than learn about them. He had, however, decided to speed things up by enchanting his keyboard and mouse to do his bidding without contact. This tended to unnerve some of the other support staff and was the subject of a number of 'betterment chats' with the group formerly known as the disciplinary board. As his emails opened in front of him, he breathed a heavy, defeated sigh at the list of names and panicked subjects awaiting his attention. It was back to the daily hell.
Harold’s day, as with all work days, passed at half the rate of normal time. He’d repeatedly tried to cast a spell to speed up the passage of time inside the office, thereby allowing him to whip through his work day more quickly, but all he’d manged to achieve was an acceleration of deadlines. If anything, he’d made life much harder for himself.
After what Harold assessed to have been at least 6 hours, it was in fact mid-morning, and he noticed some commotion in the tea area to the side of the office. It seemed that Gary, one of the salespeople with a large mouth and an even larger need to be hit there, was setting out some cake, sweets, cheeses and fruit. It could mean only one thing - a birthday.
Harold had no time for office birthdays. He didn't understand why anyone should be forced to bring in treats just for being born, he didn't understand why anyone else in the office should be expected to care, and he certainly didn't understand why no-one ever invited him out to the drinks afterwards. He would have categorically declined every invitation anyway, but he still felt robbed of every opportunity to say no.
At 11 O’clock the tea area was plagued with milling employees all pretending to like Gary and wish him well, entirely as an excuse to eat cake and not do any work. They were clogging the small room, blocking any access Harold should have had to the kettle despite it clearly being time for his mid-morning tea top up.
Grumpily, Harold pushed away from his desk, grasped his mug by the handle (to grasp it elsewhere would have been foolish) and ambled towards the overly busy tea area. Entering the cloud of false sincerity and empty compliments, Harold was forced to huff and grunt requests at several people to excuse him, as if he was the one who should need to be excused. It was his right to get to the kettle, but these human obstacles were standing in a stupid place and getting in the way.
Harold
stood at his final destination by the kettle and waited for it to boil, teabag
already in the mug and ready for a quick escape from this over-populated
hellscape. Before the kettle made it to boiling point, however, Gary called
out.
“Harold! Here to do some magic tricks for me? Make it a party? Gonna pull a rabbit out of a hat?” He said with smug self-confidence, buoyed by the grinning buffoons around him. He got a few laughs as payment for the cake.
Harold replied devastatingly with a heavy sigh, which should surely have been enough to put the loud-mouth into his place.
“Turn me into a frog?” Gary followed up, clearly a glutton for punishment in inviting a second sigh and even a shake of the head.
“Unleash flying monkeys?”
Harold slowly turned to face the grinning git. Comparing a grand magus to a common magician was insulting enough, but to be compared to a witch? A wicked witch? That was too much.
“Right, that's it you waste of skin.” Harold snapped at Gary, frowning and raising his arms. He’d been working on a new spell and this was the perfect opportunity to try it out.
“AGGLOMERATE!” he shouted, pointing towards the table of treats.
The large birthday cake on the table vibrated and began to drift rightwards, and simultaneously a large block of Stilton drifted leftwards. The gaggle of vultures looked on, some in innocent confusion and others with the horror of realisation as the two mismatched food items approached one another across the surface of the table. When the Stilton met the edge of the cake it started to get absorbed, not puncturing the surface at all but soaking into it like water. As the cheese disappeared, it left a Stilton-coloured stain which spread outwards like the sun rising across an unusually flat and heavily iced plateau. In a few short seconds the whole cake had adopted the grey-white and blue-veined pallor of Stilton, with a layer of unpleasant looking icing oozing down the sides. The faint click of the kettle finishing its work was the only sound in the room.
In the shocked silence, Harold calmly filled his mug with hot water and walked back to his desk, leaving Gary and his cronies with their newfound baker’s nightmare.
“Harold! Here to do some magic tricks for me? Make it a party? Gonna pull a rabbit out of a hat?” He said with smug self-confidence, buoyed by the grinning buffoons around him. He got a few laughs as payment for the cake.
Harold replied devastatingly with a heavy sigh, which should surely have been enough to put the loud-mouth into his place.
“Turn me into a frog?” Gary followed up, clearly a glutton for punishment in inviting a second sigh and even a shake of the head.
“Unleash flying monkeys?”
Harold slowly turned to face the grinning git. Comparing a grand magus to a common magician was insulting enough, but to be compared to a witch? A wicked witch? That was too much.
“Right, that's it you waste of skin.” Harold snapped at Gary, frowning and raising his arms. He’d been working on a new spell and this was the perfect opportunity to try it out.
“AGGLOMERATE!” he shouted, pointing towards the table of treats.
The large birthday cake on the table vibrated and began to drift rightwards, and simultaneously a large block of Stilton drifted leftwards. The gaggle of vultures looked on, some in innocent confusion and others with the horror of realisation as the two mismatched food items approached one another across the surface of the table. When the Stilton met the edge of the cake it started to get absorbed, not puncturing the surface at all but soaking into it like water. As the cheese disappeared, it left a Stilton-coloured stain which spread outwards like the sun rising across an unusually flat and heavily iced plateau. In a few short seconds the whole cake had adopted the grey-white and blue-veined pallor of Stilton, with a layer of unpleasant looking icing oozing down the sides. The faint click of the kettle finishing its work was the only sound in the room.
In the shocked silence, Harold calmly filled his mug with hot water and walked back to his desk, leaving Gary and his cronies with their newfound baker’s nightmare.
A
disciplinary hearing for disruption to Gary’s celebration was called and then
immediately suspended. Harold presumed that he had successfully managed to
convince everyone it had been a cheesecake all along, but HR’s realisation that
spontaneous snack transmutation wasn't covered by dignity at work guidelines was
a much larger factor. Powerless though
they were to punish him for agglomeration, they did still reprimand him for
breaching internal rules on the inappropriate use of magic in general; those
rules had been added shortly before Harold’s employment at the office, as a
result of a Wiccan with a bad attitude and even worse self-control. Gary wasn't
terribly pleased with the lack of affirmative action against the magus, but kept
his silence lest he find his shirt agglomerated with a roaring fire.
Open
grievances with HR be damned, at 5pm on the dot Harold stood up and walked out
of the office. His various garments dressed themselves onto him and his
equipment switched itself under their respective enchantments as he went,
drawing yet more suspicious and envious looks from his colleagues. When Harold
arrived back at home however, things took a turn for the worse.
A
parcel had been delivered for Harold whilst he was out, which must have been
the new socks he’d ordered. It turned out that, for reasons Harold was
insufficiently educated to understand, a large amount of the magical power used
for spellcasting was charged and discharged through the feet. When casting
minor enchantments and hexes this wasn’t a big deal, but the powerful magics
wielded by a grand magus were another matter entirely. The intense flux of
power wreaked a terrible toll on the sock, fraying the fabric and wearing it
down in a few short weeks of use.
This sock parcel had been left with Margery, despite the clear "Don't leave it with that harpy at number 45" instruction Harold had added to the packing slip. The box had been opened already and then left in the rain on his doorstep, almost certainly spitefully. There was an outside chance that Margery had read the packing slip and been offended by the wording, Harold supposed, but if she was too childish to accept her true nature than that was her problem, not his. It was no excuse to give someone a serious case of the rainy socks.
Injustices to innocent clothing reinforced Harold’s opinion that Margery needed to be exorcised for the good of the world, but as ever he stayed his hand. He couldn’t banish her without a proper council of mages present to agree with the ruling and aid in the spellcasting, and no council of mages had existed for hundreds of years. The West Turnton district council was a poor substitute. Revenge was still necessary, however. By the light of every full moon thereafter, Margery's front garden was filled with legions of rats from all around the greater Surrey area. They never really did much, because they were all thoroughly confused as to why they'd gathered on the surface so suddenly, but it was an intimidating and unpleasant sight none the less.
Harold took his new, wet socks indoors and hung them up to dry before setting out again. Despite the hardships of the day, he still needed to get the shopping, awful as that experience always was. Over the years Harold’s attempts at conjuring his own produce in order to avoid the hassle of grocery shopping had been of poor quality. The majority of vegetables tasted of ash, looked like ash, and emerged in a ball of flame – much like ash does – and his meat usually turned out like the abomination which had haunted his kitchen that morning. Shopping was quite literally the lesser of two evils.
This sock parcel had been left with Margery, despite the clear "Don't leave it with that harpy at number 45" instruction Harold had added to the packing slip. The box had been opened already and then left in the rain on his doorstep, almost certainly spitefully. There was an outside chance that Margery had read the packing slip and been offended by the wording, Harold supposed, but if she was too childish to accept her true nature than that was her problem, not his. It was no excuse to give someone a serious case of the rainy socks.
Injustices to innocent clothing reinforced Harold’s opinion that Margery needed to be exorcised for the good of the world, but as ever he stayed his hand. He couldn’t banish her without a proper council of mages present to agree with the ruling and aid in the spellcasting, and no council of mages had existed for hundreds of years. The West Turnton district council was a poor substitute. Revenge was still necessary, however. By the light of every full moon thereafter, Margery's front garden was filled with legions of rats from all around the greater Surrey area. They never really did much, because they were all thoroughly confused as to why they'd gathered on the surface so suddenly, but it was an intimidating and unpleasant sight none the less.
Harold took his new, wet socks indoors and hung them up to dry before setting out again. Despite the hardships of the day, he still needed to get the shopping, awful as that experience always was. Over the years Harold’s attempts at conjuring his own produce in order to avoid the hassle of grocery shopping had been of poor quality. The majority of vegetables tasted of ash, looked like ash, and emerged in a ball of flame – much like ash does – and his meat usually turned out like the abomination which had haunted his kitchen that morning. Shopping was quite literally the lesser of two evils.
Despite
the track record of failure, Harold couldn’t help considering one more attempt
at a grocery summoning as he navigated the human wreckage in the dairy aisle.
He always thought that it was fitting that the other customers shuffled along
for their milk like human cattle, but assured himself that he was special for
noticing it and thereby exempt.
Once the grand magus had been allowed to shuffle through the traffic of trolleys and bovine customers he was presented with what their slow stampede had wrought – the yoghurts on their high shelf were dented, crushed, split and, in one case, lidless and inverted. Harold puffed his cheeks out in displeasure, like an irate, balding hamster, and stared at the yoghurt mayhem. There was an awful lot of dripping dairy, with appreciable chunks of fruit resting on the mousses and fromage frais below. Peering past the superficial chaos, Harold noticed that there were still a few tubs left intact at the back of the shelf, but he would need to plunge his hand into the disgusting realm of spilled desserts in order to reach them. That wouldn’t do at all; he’d get yoghurt all over his shirt. Another method was required.
Carefully thinking about which tub he wished to reach, Harold murmured some words of power and a small but violent wind billowed around the aisle. With a sound like water being torn and sand rushing along an exhaust pipe, a rift in reality opened up behind the shelf of Low Fat Strawberry and Lime Greek-Inspired Yoghurt-Style Dessert. Three tubs toppled through the rift and landed neatly in Harold’s trolley just next to the aubergine; this wasn’t the ideal arrangement due to the temperature difference between the vegetable and yoghurt, but it would do for now.
His business in refrigerated dairy concluded, Harold rounded the aisle and groaned audibly when he saw a certified Margery looking at the very choc ices that he wished to browse. Now he would be forced to mill awkwardly nearby until she was finished, the selfish cow.
Margery seemed to be finding the answers to life’s great mysteries among the frozen goods, spending what felt like hours examining each box in fine detail before placing it back into the freezer. If anyone else had been doing this then Harold would have feared for their fingers, but Margery’s heart of ice safeguarded her against any dangers of the cold.
When Margery had finally finished doing her profane reading she lifted a single box and dropped it into her trolley. Once she’d moved along slightly, Harold peered into the freezer which had held her attention for so long and was struck the deathblow; she had taken the last box of choc-ices. The demonic harlot had delayed him purposefully and then deprived him of his rightful treats, yet another crime in a long list of evil deviancy. Grumbling to himself over the injustice, Harold continued along the aisle, his gaze resting on the stolen choc-ices in Margery’s trolley.
“Harold.” She said tersely as they passed, with an almost imperceptible smugness that told Harold she had meant to make him suffer.
“Oh. Margery, isn't it?” He replied. Mind games could be the greatest magic of all.
“Why are you pretending not to know me? We've been neighbours for 15 years you pathetic oaf.” She asked, annoyed.
‘How dare she not be humiliated!’ Harold thought to himself. War had been declared.
“In fairness, so-called Margery, you're a forgettable bunion on the foot of life.” It was a real zinger that promised him victory, but Margery didn’t break down in tears; such was the way when one battled demons. She simply ignored him and looked down at her shopping list.
Harold could see the choc-ices right there, resting on the other frozen goods in Margery’s trolley, and heard them calling to him. They were his by right and Margery had usurped them from him knowingly. She must have seen the wrappers in the torn rubbish bags that morning and laid her evil plans out to the letter. How exactly she had known there would be only one box left in the store by the time she went shopping Harold couldn’t say, but he suspected she may have made several trips today. She must have had to ship out dozens of boxes of choc-ices every time and then lay in wait for him here all afternoon, the sadistic banshee.
Harold saw a store assistant at the other end of the aisle fussing over the price of some cordial bottles and recognised him as just the distraction required to liberate the imprisoned treats. Whilst Margery was consulting her list, likely populated with the souls of newborns, Harold levitated a tub of vanilla ice cream from the freezer next to her. Naturally, the sight of floating dessert caught Margery’s attention, doubly so when the tub pressed itself into her hands. She peered at the frozen lid which boasted a soft-scoop and creamy experience but saw no mention of any flying abilities; of all the selling points this ice cream could have prioritised, that would surely have been the best. In much the same way as a dog pleading for an additional few hours of scratches, the tub pushed against Margery’s hand, lifting it upwards until it appeared that she was holding the tub at chest height. Then, unlike most dogs requesting a scratch, the ice cream was forcefully propelled down the aisle by Harold’s magic.
The tub shattered when it hit the back wall, spraying frozen dairy across the neat shelves of cordial on the back wall and showering the store assistant. He snapped up sharply with surprise and betrayal in his eyes, and saw Margery looking aghast next to the ammunition freezer. A crowd of junior managers, sub-junior managers and envoys to the sub-junior managers gathered at the scene, pointing fingers at Margery and muttering in tones of tenuous authority to one another. As they assembled a task force of lesser employees to harangue Margery, Harold used the chaos to levitate the choc-ices from Margery's trolley unnoticed and make a break for freedom. It was a triumph for the forces of light.
Once the grand magus had been allowed to shuffle through the traffic of trolleys and bovine customers he was presented with what their slow stampede had wrought – the yoghurts on their high shelf were dented, crushed, split and, in one case, lidless and inverted. Harold puffed his cheeks out in displeasure, like an irate, balding hamster, and stared at the yoghurt mayhem. There was an awful lot of dripping dairy, with appreciable chunks of fruit resting on the mousses and fromage frais below. Peering past the superficial chaos, Harold noticed that there were still a few tubs left intact at the back of the shelf, but he would need to plunge his hand into the disgusting realm of spilled desserts in order to reach them. That wouldn’t do at all; he’d get yoghurt all over his shirt. Another method was required.
Carefully thinking about which tub he wished to reach, Harold murmured some words of power and a small but violent wind billowed around the aisle. With a sound like water being torn and sand rushing along an exhaust pipe, a rift in reality opened up behind the shelf of Low Fat Strawberry and Lime Greek-Inspired Yoghurt-Style Dessert. Three tubs toppled through the rift and landed neatly in Harold’s trolley just next to the aubergine; this wasn’t the ideal arrangement due to the temperature difference between the vegetable and yoghurt, but it would do for now.
His business in refrigerated dairy concluded, Harold rounded the aisle and groaned audibly when he saw a certified Margery looking at the very choc ices that he wished to browse. Now he would be forced to mill awkwardly nearby until she was finished, the selfish cow.
Margery seemed to be finding the answers to life’s great mysteries among the frozen goods, spending what felt like hours examining each box in fine detail before placing it back into the freezer. If anyone else had been doing this then Harold would have feared for their fingers, but Margery’s heart of ice safeguarded her against any dangers of the cold.
When Margery had finally finished doing her profane reading she lifted a single box and dropped it into her trolley. Once she’d moved along slightly, Harold peered into the freezer which had held her attention for so long and was struck the deathblow; she had taken the last box of choc-ices. The demonic harlot had delayed him purposefully and then deprived him of his rightful treats, yet another crime in a long list of evil deviancy. Grumbling to himself over the injustice, Harold continued along the aisle, his gaze resting on the stolen choc-ices in Margery’s trolley.
“Harold.” She said tersely as they passed, with an almost imperceptible smugness that told Harold she had meant to make him suffer.
“Oh. Margery, isn't it?” He replied. Mind games could be the greatest magic of all.
“Why are you pretending not to know me? We've been neighbours for 15 years you pathetic oaf.” She asked, annoyed.
‘How dare she not be humiliated!’ Harold thought to himself. War had been declared.
“In fairness, so-called Margery, you're a forgettable bunion on the foot of life.” It was a real zinger that promised him victory, but Margery didn’t break down in tears; such was the way when one battled demons. She simply ignored him and looked down at her shopping list.
Harold could see the choc-ices right there, resting on the other frozen goods in Margery’s trolley, and heard them calling to him. They were his by right and Margery had usurped them from him knowingly. She must have seen the wrappers in the torn rubbish bags that morning and laid her evil plans out to the letter. How exactly she had known there would be only one box left in the store by the time she went shopping Harold couldn’t say, but he suspected she may have made several trips today. She must have had to ship out dozens of boxes of choc-ices every time and then lay in wait for him here all afternoon, the sadistic banshee.
Harold saw a store assistant at the other end of the aisle fussing over the price of some cordial bottles and recognised him as just the distraction required to liberate the imprisoned treats. Whilst Margery was consulting her list, likely populated with the souls of newborns, Harold levitated a tub of vanilla ice cream from the freezer next to her. Naturally, the sight of floating dessert caught Margery’s attention, doubly so when the tub pressed itself into her hands. She peered at the frozen lid which boasted a soft-scoop and creamy experience but saw no mention of any flying abilities; of all the selling points this ice cream could have prioritised, that would surely have been the best. In much the same way as a dog pleading for an additional few hours of scratches, the tub pushed against Margery’s hand, lifting it upwards until it appeared that she was holding the tub at chest height. Then, unlike most dogs requesting a scratch, the ice cream was forcefully propelled down the aisle by Harold’s magic.
The tub shattered when it hit the back wall, spraying frozen dairy across the neat shelves of cordial on the back wall and showering the store assistant. He snapped up sharply with surprise and betrayal in his eyes, and saw Margery looking aghast next to the ammunition freezer. A crowd of junior managers, sub-junior managers and envoys to the sub-junior managers gathered at the scene, pointing fingers at Margery and muttering in tones of tenuous authority to one another. As they assembled a task force of lesser employees to harangue Margery, Harold used the chaos to levitate the choc-ices from Margery's trolley unnoticed and make a break for freedom. It was a triumph for the forces of light.
Once
he had returned home and had his shopping unpack itself, Harold wandered into
the living room and switched the television on. A news broadcast showed
horrified local people complaining about some kind of wild beast rampaging
around West Turnton, knocking over bins, digging up gardens, and scattering
large quantities of human teeth all around the neighbourhood. Blurry amateur
video footage, which appeared to have been taken using a ham sandwich in lieu
of a traditional camera, showed a huge, vaguely chicken shaped horror ambling
around a corner and shrieking.
Seeing that no good would come from watching that broadcast, Harold switched the television back off and plonked himself down on the armchair, which had scampered around behind him for the occasion. Unfortunately, when Harold had cast his animation spell on the armchair he’d also given it an addictive personality, and now it was completely dependent on Harold sitting down to be able to function. Seeing as allowing Harold to sit down was its sole function in the first place, this raised all sorts of deep philosophical questions to which Harold was entirely oblivious. This obliviousness did not extend, however, to the strange dark shapes covering his garden all of a sudden. Harold stood, much to his armchair’s dismay, and looked out of his patio window to see that Margery had thrown a not insubstantial quantity of dog's mess onto his otherwise pristine lawn. It was an outrage to say the least, and probably some kind of vengeance for the wheelie bin this morning, despite the fact she had already wrought soggy havoc with the sock delivery. This never-ending war of discourtesy followed by arcane curse followed by discourtesy was a vicious cycle to be sure, but Harold couldn't back down now; they’d come too far. With a grimace and a poorly executed fire spell, Harold vaporised the stinky projectiles and created himself an even more unpleasant smog. Panicking, he quickly summoned a wind and wafted the aroma into Margery's house via the extractor fan.
"HAROLD! WHY DOES MY KITCHEN SMELL LIKE AN ABANDONED KENNEL?" It had taken only a minute for Margery to conclude that Harold was the cause of her kitchen’s new blight and start screaming at him through his front door.
"The same reason my lawn was...was…was defiled by your dog's filth." Harold replied angrily.
"That was retaliation for vandalising my wheelie bin and putting your rubbish in it."
"And what of the sock delivery, hmm?" His trump card had been played, evidence that Margery had made two moves against him since this morning, three if he included the attempt choc-ice rustling.
"That was an accident! I didn't read the address until after I'd opened it."
"A likely story. I suppose you accidentally left it exposed to the rain too, you old hag."
"Hag!? It WAS unintentional for your information, but now I'm glad it happened. You deserve wet socks every day you petty illusionist.”
“Illusionist is it?! Well, a thousand days of locusts on your window boxes, Margery.” Harold hissed venomously before slamming the door in her face.
Seeing that no good would come from watching that broadcast, Harold switched the television back off and plonked himself down on the armchair, which had scampered around behind him for the occasion. Unfortunately, when Harold had cast his animation spell on the armchair he’d also given it an addictive personality, and now it was completely dependent on Harold sitting down to be able to function. Seeing as allowing Harold to sit down was its sole function in the first place, this raised all sorts of deep philosophical questions to which Harold was entirely oblivious. This obliviousness did not extend, however, to the strange dark shapes covering his garden all of a sudden. Harold stood, much to his armchair’s dismay, and looked out of his patio window to see that Margery had thrown a not insubstantial quantity of dog's mess onto his otherwise pristine lawn. It was an outrage to say the least, and probably some kind of vengeance for the wheelie bin this morning, despite the fact she had already wrought soggy havoc with the sock delivery. This never-ending war of discourtesy followed by arcane curse followed by discourtesy was a vicious cycle to be sure, but Harold couldn't back down now; they’d come too far. With a grimace and a poorly executed fire spell, Harold vaporised the stinky projectiles and created himself an even more unpleasant smog. Panicking, he quickly summoned a wind and wafted the aroma into Margery's house via the extractor fan.
"HAROLD! WHY DOES MY KITCHEN SMELL LIKE AN ABANDONED KENNEL?" It had taken only a minute for Margery to conclude that Harold was the cause of her kitchen’s new blight and start screaming at him through his front door.
"The same reason my lawn was...was…was defiled by your dog's filth." Harold replied angrily.
"That was retaliation for vandalising my wheelie bin and putting your rubbish in it."
"And what of the sock delivery, hmm?" His trump card had been played, evidence that Margery had made two moves against him since this morning, three if he included the attempt choc-ice rustling.
"That was an accident! I didn't read the address until after I'd opened it."
"A likely story. I suppose you accidentally left it exposed to the rain too, you old hag."
"Hag!? It WAS unintentional for your information, but now I'm glad it happened. You deserve wet socks every day you petty illusionist.”
“Illusionist is it?! Well, a thousand days of locusts on your window boxes, Margery.” Harold hissed venomously before slamming the door in her face.
A
couple of days later, whilst eating dinner and watching the locusts swarm Margery’s
empty window boxes, Harold couldn't help wondering if the delivery debacle had
been an accident after all. He certainly wouldn't be apologising or lifting the
curse since that would be an admission of guilt, but the uncertainty plagued
him all the same.
Harold’s ponderings were reaching a fever-pitch when a knock on the door rudely interrupted them. Aggrieved that anyone should have the nerve to disturb him, Harold stomped with a theatrical sigh to the door and opened it to a thin man in a pinstriped black suit. The man held a sheaf of papers out to Harold, who eyed them suspiciously.
“Why are you knocking on my door? Can’t you see I’m eating my supper? What do you want?” Harold questioned intently, apparently assuming the man could see through walls and thus determine that Harold was engaged in a meal.
"Harold Livingston?" The man asked. He had a fairly good idea that this was indeed Harold Livingston, but wished to be sure.
"Yes, what is this?"
"I am here to notify you of proceedings being raised against you by my client for misuse of magic to the detriment of others. You are due in court in one week to hear the case against you."
"What the- this is preposterous!" Harold bellowed incorrectly.
"We'll see you again in court Mr Livingston." The man in black replied smugly before turning away and walking up the driveway.
"Come back here and explain yourself!" Harold demanded.
The man kept walking and so Harold did what any self-respecting citizen accused of magic abuse would do; he cast the spell of the never-ending driveway. This was another of the spells he'd picked up from the old tomes. Previous magi had used never-ending path spells to protect the routes into their homes, so that any intruder could walk forever but never reach their destination. Harold, on the other hand, used it whenever he saw salespeople walking towards his door. This time around, in his rage, he fudged it up and instead of making his driveway endlessly long, it became endlessly wide. Thankfully the lawyer had parked in front of the door, and was now unable to walk around his car to get in. He stopped and faced Harold again.
"You see, this is exactly the kind of thing my client is talking about. Magic abuse, using your powers to exploit the magically-impaired."
"Oh I am not."
"You are currently holding me prisoner in an infinite driveway of your own creation."
Harold frowned at the accusation and blustered "Well I don't see what business it is of yours how I conduct myself."
“It’s precisely my business, Mr Livingston. My name is Zachary Null and I specialise in magical litigation.”
“Magical litigation? I’ve never heard of such poppycock in my life”
“I can assure you it is not poppycock, Mr Livingston. I’m an expert in claiming for all damages caused by the higher powers, including but not restricted to plagues of locusts,” Harold shot a sideways glance at Margery’s window boxes “curses, hexes, enchantments and miracles. Artefact abuse is considered on a case-by-case basis” he recited with a thin smile. Zachary Null didn’t know it, but he was a distant descendent of the cultists who had originally sought to expunge magic from the world. His own view on magic was far more avaricious than that of his ancestors, which, if anything, made him far more dangerous in the modern age.
“What a load of bunkum. There’s no way anyone could sustain themselves so… well, like such of a leech.”
“Take a look at my car and you’ll see how well someone can sustain themselves by upholding the law against the abusers of magic.” Zachary said, holding a hand towards the vehicle. It was mid-range hatchback, at least ten years old, with a Porsche badge crudely duct-taped to the boot lid. It was also currently infinitely wide, rendering it an impractical choice of transportation for narrow country lanes, although this wasn’t an inherent design choice by the manufacturer.
Harold was deeply unsure as to whether this display of automotive delusion was an elaborate bluff or not, but chose not to question it openly.
“Now would you please release me before the charges against you grow any greater?”
With a deep huff Harold muttered some magical words and the driveway returned to its original dimensions, with the exception of two bricks at the end that travelled to a mystical dimension of golden rains and obsidian lakes. They felt awfully under-dressed for their surroundings.
Without speaking further, Zachary climbed back into his ‘Porsche’ and drove away, bouncing his suspension with a teeth-chattering crunch on the two-brick pothole which had recently emerged.
Harold’s ponderings were reaching a fever-pitch when a knock on the door rudely interrupted them. Aggrieved that anyone should have the nerve to disturb him, Harold stomped with a theatrical sigh to the door and opened it to a thin man in a pinstriped black suit. The man held a sheaf of papers out to Harold, who eyed them suspiciously.
“Why are you knocking on my door? Can’t you see I’m eating my supper? What do you want?” Harold questioned intently, apparently assuming the man could see through walls and thus determine that Harold was engaged in a meal.
"Harold Livingston?" The man asked. He had a fairly good idea that this was indeed Harold Livingston, but wished to be sure.
"Yes, what is this?"
"I am here to notify you of proceedings being raised against you by my client for misuse of magic to the detriment of others. You are due in court in one week to hear the case against you."
"What the- this is preposterous!" Harold bellowed incorrectly.
"We'll see you again in court Mr Livingston." The man in black replied smugly before turning away and walking up the driveway.
"Come back here and explain yourself!" Harold demanded.
The man kept walking and so Harold did what any self-respecting citizen accused of magic abuse would do; he cast the spell of the never-ending driveway. This was another of the spells he'd picked up from the old tomes. Previous magi had used never-ending path spells to protect the routes into their homes, so that any intruder could walk forever but never reach their destination. Harold, on the other hand, used it whenever he saw salespeople walking towards his door. This time around, in his rage, he fudged it up and instead of making his driveway endlessly long, it became endlessly wide. Thankfully the lawyer had parked in front of the door, and was now unable to walk around his car to get in. He stopped and faced Harold again.
"You see, this is exactly the kind of thing my client is talking about. Magic abuse, using your powers to exploit the magically-impaired."
"Oh I am not."
"You are currently holding me prisoner in an infinite driveway of your own creation."
Harold frowned at the accusation and blustered "Well I don't see what business it is of yours how I conduct myself."
“It’s precisely my business, Mr Livingston. My name is Zachary Null and I specialise in magical litigation.”
“Magical litigation? I’ve never heard of such poppycock in my life”
“I can assure you it is not poppycock, Mr Livingston. I’m an expert in claiming for all damages caused by the higher powers, including but not restricted to plagues of locusts,” Harold shot a sideways glance at Margery’s window boxes “curses, hexes, enchantments and miracles. Artefact abuse is considered on a case-by-case basis” he recited with a thin smile. Zachary Null didn’t know it, but he was a distant descendent of the cultists who had originally sought to expunge magic from the world. His own view on magic was far more avaricious than that of his ancestors, which, if anything, made him far more dangerous in the modern age.
“What a load of bunkum. There’s no way anyone could sustain themselves so… well, like such of a leech.”
“Take a look at my car and you’ll see how well someone can sustain themselves by upholding the law against the abusers of magic.” Zachary said, holding a hand towards the vehicle. It was mid-range hatchback, at least ten years old, with a Porsche badge crudely duct-taped to the boot lid. It was also currently infinitely wide, rendering it an impractical choice of transportation for narrow country lanes, although this wasn’t an inherent design choice by the manufacturer.
Harold was deeply unsure as to whether this display of automotive delusion was an elaborate bluff or not, but chose not to question it openly.
“Now would you please release me before the charges against you grow any greater?”
With a deep huff Harold muttered some magical words and the driveway returned to its original dimensions, with the exception of two bricks at the end that travelled to a mystical dimension of golden rains and obsidian lakes. They felt awfully under-dressed for their surroundings.
Without speaking further, Zachary climbed back into his ‘Porsche’ and drove away, bouncing his suspension with a teeth-chattering crunch on the two-brick pothole which had recently emerged.
Harold
did his best to keep a low profile for the week leading up to his hearing, lest
anyone else get ideas above their station regarding legal proceedings. He
seethed and dwelled on whom the prosecution was representing, suspecting the
involvement of some kind of Margery. This was exactly petty enough for her, but
lacked a certain personally demonic touch; she wasn’t renowned for hiring in
professional help. Still, not wishing to take any risks, Harold avoided raining
magical fury down upon her too hard, only once giving into vengeance when
Margery’s newly bought wheelie bin was protruding onto his drive again. Even
then, it was a subtle curse of eternal night time onto her flower beds so that
her sunflowers wouldn’t bloom; passive aggressive magic was about all he could
muster confidently.
On
the morning of the hearing Harold made his way to the town hall by distinctly
non-magical means and waited patiently outside the courtroom until he was waved
in. On the way to his seat, Harold saw Zachary sitting alone at the table for
the prosecution, apparently acting entirely on behalf of his client. The fact
that whomever was raising these spurious charges against him was too cowardly
to show their face somehow angered him more than the charges being raised in
the first place; now it would be that much more difficult to know who to curse.
Zachary sat with a neat stack of papers in front of him, several more folders to one side and a briefcase resting on the adjacent chair, showing that he meant business in a display of professionalism. Conversely Harold’s own legal advisor, Joan Merris, had elected to arrive half an hour late with wet hair and a wonkily buttoned blouse, in an effort to intimidate her opposition with extreme confidence. At least, Harold hoped that was what she was doing.
“Now that we are all finally present” the judge started with a sharp look at Joan “we’ll get underway.” Joan gave the judge a thumbs up to signal that she was ready, then stuck her tongue out when he turned away again. “Would the prosecution please read the charges against the defendant?”
“Certainly, your honour.” Zachary said with saccharine sweetness. Harold squinted at Zachary’s suit and saw that an ‘Armani’ label had been safety-pinned to the lapel. “Harold Livingston stands accused of causing my client significant distress and loss of earnings as a result of the abuse of his magical powers. Not content with having the advantage over all other men and women, he actively seeks to make the lives of those around him more difficult and thereby his behaviour is a danger to the public.”
“It most certainly is not!” Harold shouted angrily across the courtroom.
“Mr Livingston, please remain silent whilst the charges are being read.” The judge told Harold with the authority of a hundred librarians.
“You should listen to him, ‘Rold. He’s got a tiny hammer and everything.” Joan added in her expert opinion. She was reclined in her seat with her feet up on the table, staring at her fingernails as she filed them.
“As I was saying, Harold Livingston, the so-called ‘Grand Magus’, is a threat to society with his malicious use of magic. He shows a wilful disregard for other people and the trouble his spells may cause them, exercising spite and pettiness where there should be restraint and compassion instead. It is the responsibility of those with power to use it for the common good, not to torment the people around him.”
This sounded exactly like Margery’s sob story. He’d barely even hexed her at all, only ever lashing out at her home or belongings. If that wasn’t restraint against the woman who had left her television too loud for more nights than Harold could remember then he didn’t know what on Earth these people were expecting from him.
“Moreover, my client moves that Mr Livingston has used his magic to permanently disfigure property and land in pursuit of trivial convenience and petty retaliation.”
“I am perfectly within my rights to use magic to make my life easier!” Harold protested, having far more objection to the dismissal of his convenience as ‘trivial’ than the accusations of vandalism.
“Mr Livingston, I will not warn you again to stay quiet.” The judge snapped.
“He probably will warn you again; guy’s just trying to throw his weight around. Still, you’re probably best off listening to him and keeping your mouth shut.” Joan’s nails were still more deeply engrossing than her work.
Harold seethed but nodded to the judge. He couldn’t believe how much Margery was blowing these things out of proportion. Sure, he might have dropped one or two lingering curses on her home and magically sealed a wheelie bin to her driveway but it was a proportionate response. Her bin was slightly over his driveway every week. She’d ruined more than one delivery, been caught throwing her garden clippings over his fence, and even had a barbecue specifically because his washing was out on the line. Who has barbecues in the middle of the day in November? Harold asked himself that question every time he ran Margery’s cover story over in his head. This was a war of tit for tat that she was losing, and now she was getting the law involved to really cripple him. It wasn’t just unfair and underhanded, it was barbaric. Harold didn’t know why he would expect any more from a vile hell-beast like her.
“My client moves that damages and compensation for loss of earnings are due from Mr Livingston, along with a court-ordered restriction on his use of magic.”
“And for the court, who is your client, Mr Null?” The judge asked flatly.
It’s that contemptible witch. Harold shouted inside his own head.
“Mitchell Clyde, manager of the West Turnton branch of Cheapo’s Supermarket.”
Harold was flabbergasted. He'd been much more vengeful to Margery than the supermarket manager - in fact, he had never exacted personal retribution on the manager at all. The worst he'd done, he told himself, was to use magic for his own gains. That hardly qualified as tormenting someone in Harold’s book. Tormenting was far better described by some of the things he’d done to Margery.
“The supermarket is raising charges against me?” Harold whispered incredulously to Joan.
“Guess so yeah. Must be antsy about you using the self-service checkouts wrong or something.”
“My client has listed several complaints against Mr Livingston, including but not restricted to the opening of a rift in space in the dairy aisle just behind the yoghurts, the attempted assault of an employee with a tub of vanilla ice cream, the bestowal of sentience upon a trolley which has since elected to leave the service of the supermarket in pursuit of a golfing career, and the creation of a sacrificial circle in the family section of the car park.”
“Well how else was I supposed to load my shopping?”
“The court recognises the difficulties inherent in loading the shopping, particularly in the rain. I’ll going to allow this interruption.” The judge said supportively, much to everyone’s surprise.
“Yes, but not everyone needs to slaughter live animals in front of young children for the occasion.”
“The court recognises that everyone has their own method of loading the shopping, Mr Null. There will be no further discussion of Mr Livington’s sacrifices in the car park.”
“Preach it!” shouted Joan, pointing at the judge with one hand and carefully examining the nails on the other.
Zachary let out a disgruntled sigh and sat down.
“Does the defence have any opening statements?” The judge asked Joan and Harold. Joan made no move to respond, or even to acknowledge that she had heard the judge speak. When Harold nudged her she looked up at him and shrugged.
“You want to say anything?” she muttered to Harold. He shook his head. “Ugh, fine. I will then.” Taking her own time about it, Joan swung her legs off the table and stood up, flattening out the creases in her blouse and trousers before addressing the court.
“I move that Harold’s done nothing wrong in using his abilities for his own good. I also move that Znull over there is a nerd.” Joan spoke without passion, but had enough confidence to make up for it. She swaggered with each of her few words and waved her pointed fingers freely as she did so.
“The court recognises that it is permissible for people to act in their own interests, and that, in all likelihood, Zachary Null exhibits some nerdy behaviour.”
“I object to that!” said Zachary, his tone corroborating that claim.
“That’s fine.” The judge replied as Joan returned to her seat. “I will now hear the evidence against the defendant.”
Zachary cleared his throat and stood again, attempting to regain his composure after being insulted by not only the defence, but also the ‘impartial’ judge.
“Harold Livingston has a history of ruining honest businesses with his magic, and I intend to show that he is repeating his dangerous behaviour to the detriment of Cheapos supermarket. How many beekeepers were there in West Turnton before Harold came along with his reckless beeomancy?”
“Technically speaking, one half.” Joan replied.
“Oh. Well, that’s still at least half of a tragedy, which is far more tragedy than anyone would like.”
“The court recognises that one half is greater than none.”
“Harold has never shown any indication of remorse for the half of a livelihood he ruined. I move that Harold is to pay the damages he owes and is contracted into servitude to the Cheapos store for at least a year, using his magic for the benefit of others instead of their detriment. Although these punishments do not fit with any of the legal precedents I could find for misuse of magic, I felt that I would be magnanimous with such leniency. After all, burning Harold at the stake seems excessive and drowning him would be inhumane. Plus, it would deprive Cheapos of the servitude they are due.”
“These are... bold claims and sentences, Mr Null. I would remind you that sentencing is my right and duty alone. I will, however, recognise that compensation and, let’s call it what it is, slavery are much more modern punishments than the alternatives.”
“I am attempting to extend an olive branch, even whilst bringing about the justice that Cheapos deserves.” Zachary told the judge, his words even slimier than a jellied slug. As he smugly grinned a high heeled shoe struck Zachary on the side of the head. Joan looked innocently in the other direction, one bare foot crossed over one high heeled foot, both still up on the table.
“Continue giving your evidence, Mr Null. And please do not deviate into sentencing again.”
The case extended for the majority of the day, with Zachary listing various magical offences that Harold was observed to have committed and Joan rebuking them with either projectiles or shrugs. Harold passed the time shuffling his hands around under the table and muttering quietly to himself occasionally. When Zachary finalised his case by pointing out that the roving beast which had been terrorising bins across the town had originated at Harold’s house, the judge finally called proceedings to an end.
“I think we have heard enough now, Mr Null. We will have a 15 minute recess whilst I consider the facts, and then I shall pass my judgement upon you all.” The judge told them with grandeur and abuse of power.
“This whole trial is a farce.” Harold told Joan grumpily. She was still, impossibly, filing her fingernails down. After such a long time she should have had no fingers left at all.
“All trials are farcical. They should call the courtroom a farce-hole.”
“Are you going to say anything useful today?” Harold snapped at her.
“Depends if I need to speak to a waiter or not, really.” She said, still not looking up. Harold made various grumbling noises and ceased his attempts to discuss the matter with her.
Zachary sat with a neat stack of papers in front of him, several more folders to one side and a briefcase resting on the adjacent chair, showing that he meant business in a display of professionalism. Conversely Harold’s own legal advisor, Joan Merris, had elected to arrive half an hour late with wet hair and a wonkily buttoned blouse, in an effort to intimidate her opposition with extreme confidence. At least, Harold hoped that was what she was doing.
“Now that we are all finally present” the judge started with a sharp look at Joan “we’ll get underway.” Joan gave the judge a thumbs up to signal that she was ready, then stuck her tongue out when he turned away again. “Would the prosecution please read the charges against the defendant?”
“Certainly, your honour.” Zachary said with saccharine sweetness. Harold squinted at Zachary’s suit and saw that an ‘Armani’ label had been safety-pinned to the lapel. “Harold Livingston stands accused of causing my client significant distress and loss of earnings as a result of the abuse of his magical powers. Not content with having the advantage over all other men and women, he actively seeks to make the lives of those around him more difficult and thereby his behaviour is a danger to the public.”
“It most certainly is not!” Harold shouted angrily across the courtroom.
“Mr Livingston, please remain silent whilst the charges are being read.” The judge told Harold with the authority of a hundred librarians.
“You should listen to him, ‘Rold. He’s got a tiny hammer and everything.” Joan added in her expert opinion. She was reclined in her seat with her feet up on the table, staring at her fingernails as she filed them.
“As I was saying, Harold Livingston, the so-called ‘Grand Magus’, is a threat to society with his malicious use of magic. He shows a wilful disregard for other people and the trouble his spells may cause them, exercising spite and pettiness where there should be restraint and compassion instead. It is the responsibility of those with power to use it for the common good, not to torment the people around him.”
This sounded exactly like Margery’s sob story. He’d barely even hexed her at all, only ever lashing out at her home or belongings. If that wasn’t restraint against the woman who had left her television too loud for more nights than Harold could remember then he didn’t know what on Earth these people were expecting from him.
“Moreover, my client moves that Mr Livingston has used his magic to permanently disfigure property and land in pursuit of trivial convenience and petty retaliation.”
“I am perfectly within my rights to use magic to make my life easier!” Harold protested, having far more objection to the dismissal of his convenience as ‘trivial’ than the accusations of vandalism.
“Mr Livingston, I will not warn you again to stay quiet.” The judge snapped.
“He probably will warn you again; guy’s just trying to throw his weight around. Still, you’re probably best off listening to him and keeping your mouth shut.” Joan’s nails were still more deeply engrossing than her work.
Harold seethed but nodded to the judge. He couldn’t believe how much Margery was blowing these things out of proportion. Sure, he might have dropped one or two lingering curses on her home and magically sealed a wheelie bin to her driveway but it was a proportionate response. Her bin was slightly over his driveway every week. She’d ruined more than one delivery, been caught throwing her garden clippings over his fence, and even had a barbecue specifically because his washing was out on the line. Who has barbecues in the middle of the day in November? Harold asked himself that question every time he ran Margery’s cover story over in his head. This was a war of tit for tat that she was losing, and now she was getting the law involved to really cripple him. It wasn’t just unfair and underhanded, it was barbaric. Harold didn’t know why he would expect any more from a vile hell-beast like her.
“My client moves that damages and compensation for loss of earnings are due from Mr Livingston, along with a court-ordered restriction on his use of magic.”
“And for the court, who is your client, Mr Null?” The judge asked flatly.
It’s that contemptible witch. Harold shouted inside his own head.
“Mitchell Clyde, manager of the West Turnton branch of Cheapo’s Supermarket.”
Harold was flabbergasted. He'd been much more vengeful to Margery than the supermarket manager - in fact, he had never exacted personal retribution on the manager at all. The worst he'd done, he told himself, was to use magic for his own gains. That hardly qualified as tormenting someone in Harold’s book. Tormenting was far better described by some of the things he’d done to Margery.
“The supermarket is raising charges against me?” Harold whispered incredulously to Joan.
“Guess so yeah. Must be antsy about you using the self-service checkouts wrong or something.”
“My client has listed several complaints against Mr Livingston, including but not restricted to the opening of a rift in space in the dairy aisle just behind the yoghurts, the attempted assault of an employee with a tub of vanilla ice cream, the bestowal of sentience upon a trolley which has since elected to leave the service of the supermarket in pursuit of a golfing career, and the creation of a sacrificial circle in the family section of the car park.”
“Well how else was I supposed to load my shopping?”
“The court recognises the difficulties inherent in loading the shopping, particularly in the rain. I’ll going to allow this interruption.” The judge said supportively, much to everyone’s surprise.
“Yes, but not everyone needs to slaughter live animals in front of young children for the occasion.”
“The court recognises that everyone has their own method of loading the shopping, Mr Null. There will be no further discussion of Mr Livington’s sacrifices in the car park.”
“Preach it!” shouted Joan, pointing at the judge with one hand and carefully examining the nails on the other.
Zachary let out a disgruntled sigh and sat down.
“Does the defence have any opening statements?” The judge asked Joan and Harold. Joan made no move to respond, or even to acknowledge that she had heard the judge speak. When Harold nudged her she looked up at him and shrugged.
“You want to say anything?” she muttered to Harold. He shook his head. “Ugh, fine. I will then.” Taking her own time about it, Joan swung her legs off the table and stood up, flattening out the creases in her blouse and trousers before addressing the court.
“I move that Harold’s done nothing wrong in using his abilities for his own good. I also move that Znull over there is a nerd.” Joan spoke without passion, but had enough confidence to make up for it. She swaggered with each of her few words and waved her pointed fingers freely as she did so.
“The court recognises that it is permissible for people to act in their own interests, and that, in all likelihood, Zachary Null exhibits some nerdy behaviour.”
“I object to that!” said Zachary, his tone corroborating that claim.
“That’s fine.” The judge replied as Joan returned to her seat. “I will now hear the evidence against the defendant.”
Zachary cleared his throat and stood again, attempting to regain his composure after being insulted by not only the defence, but also the ‘impartial’ judge.
“Harold Livingston has a history of ruining honest businesses with his magic, and I intend to show that he is repeating his dangerous behaviour to the detriment of Cheapos supermarket. How many beekeepers were there in West Turnton before Harold came along with his reckless beeomancy?”
“Technically speaking, one half.” Joan replied.
“Oh. Well, that’s still at least half of a tragedy, which is far more tragedy than anyone would like.”
“The court recognises that one half is greater than none.”
“Harold has never shown any indication of remorse for the half of a livelihood he ruined. I move that Harold is to pay the damages he owes and is contracted into servitude to the Cheapos store for at least a year, using his magic for the benefit of others instead of their detriment. Although these punishments do not fit with any of the legal precedents I could find for misuse of magic, I felt that I would be magnanimous with such leniency. After all, burning Harold at the stake seems excessive and drowning him would be inhumane. Plus, it would deprive Cheapos of the servitude they are due.”
“These are... bold claims and sentences, Mr Null. I would remind you that sentencing is my right and duty alone. I will, however, recognise that compensation and, let’s call it what it is, slavery are much more modern punishments than the alternatives.”
“I am attempting to extend an olive branch, even whilst bringing about the justice that Cheapos deserves.” Zachary told the judge, his words even slimier than a jellied slug. As he smugly grinned a high heeled shoe struck Zachary on the side of the head. Joan looked innocently in the other direction, one bare foot crossed over one high heeled foot, both still up on the table.
“Continue giving your evidence, Mr Null. And please do not deviate into sentencing again.”
The case extended for the majority of the day, with Zachary listing various magical offences that Harold was observed to have committed and Joan rebuking them with either projectiles or shrugs. Harold passed the time shuffling his hands around under the table and muttering quietly to himself occasionally. When Zachary finalised his case by pointing out that the roving beast which had been terrorising bins across the town had originated at Harold’s house, the judge finally called proceedings to an end.
“I think we have heard enough now, Mr Null. We will have a 15 minute recess whilst I consider the facts, and then I shall pass my judgement upon you all.” The judge told them with grandeur and abuse of power.
“This whole trial is a farce.” Harold told Joan grumpily. She was still, impossibly, filing her fingernails down. After such a long time she should have had no fingers left at all.
“All trials are farcical. They should call the courtroom a farce-hole.”
“Are you going to say anything useful today?” Harold snapped at her.
“Depends if I need to speak to a waiter or not, really.” She said, still not looking up. Harold made various grumbling noises and ceased his attempts to discuss the matter with her.
After
the recess they piled back into the courtroom and Harold resumed his muttering.
The judge called for quiet and then, once Zachary had ceased firing platitudes
around, he spoke at length on the evidence had heard. Harold zoned out after
the first ten minutes, Zachary was enraptured the whole time, and Joan had
clearly mentally checked out of the whole case at least 3 days previously. Finally,
however, the judge ruled in Harold's favour, much to Zachary’s dismay. It
allowed Harold to breathe a sigh of relief, though. The case has been deeply
stressful to him and he'd nearly lost hope on a few occasions, but in the end
everything had worked out - Harold's first successful allegiance charm had paid
off and totally convinced the judge that he was innocent, despite an avalanche
of evidence to the contrary. The charm had been sloppily done, of course, and
the judge would eventually relax back into a state of hatred for Harold, but
for now they were on the same page. Abuse of magic indeed, Harold muttered to
himself. Preposterous.
Arriving back at home, Harold saw that Margery had
swept all the leaves from her driveway onto Harold's, leaving a pile exactly
where he’d have to drive. The pile almost certainly contained thorned plants
and other such objects renowned for their aggression towards tyres, so that
Harold would either have to move it all carefully or risk flattened tyres. This
was exactly the kind of straightforward attack that Harold respected – none of
this getting the courts involved nonsense. Demon though she may be, at least
Harold understood her brand of evil.
Looking at the tyres of Margery's car, Harold decided the best approach would be exchange magic. He paused, muttered a few words whilst looking distant, and then drove through the leafy detritus as if nothing was there at all.
Looking at the tyres of Margery's car, Harold decided the best approach would be exchange magic. He paused, muttered a few words whilst looking distant, and then drove through the leafy detritus as if nothing was there at all.
The
following morning Margery drove herself to the shops as normal, smirking to
herself as she looked at the tracks running through the pile of leaves on
Harold’s driveway. A few miles away, Zachary Null stood by the side of the road
staring at his car, wooden thorns and steel nails jutting from all four flattened
tyres.
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