Below you can find a sneak peak of my new release, Witchball, a humorous cozy fantasy involving three witches entering a sport meant for wizards.
You can grab a copy of the book by clicking on one of the links at the bottom of this page.
Prologue
Alfred Alfred
The janitor ambled along the length of the stone corridor that encircled the outer edge of the grandstands. He swept up the dust that had accumulated over the good few years that had passed since the wizards had first built the stadium and then almost forgotten it. It was so thick in places that he couldn’t imagine what might live underneath it. As his broom sent the dust bunnies spiralling towards their own oblivion, he half expected to unearth an alien colony of insects, to perhaps discover a new species that entomologists in the universities across Solomond had never documented.
But all the dust did was set him sneezing. This has to be an occupational hazard, he told himself and made a mental note to demand danger pay from his second employer, because there was no way in the Nine Heavens he’d get it out of his first.
The janitor’s name was Alfred, which it seemed was the most common name in his profession nowadays. It was the most common name for butlers, too, because as far as names were concerned everyone treated butlers and janitors equally. At the time of Alfred’s birth, the most common name had been Jeeves. His father was a Jeeves, and his mother was also a Jeeves. In fact, that used to be both their surname and first name, so they had both been called Jeeves Jeeves. She’d been a butler and he a janitor, descendants of a long line of butlers and janitors. Which was why Alfred was so proud of who he was today.
Fortunately for Alfred, his parents had had the foresight to change their surnames to Alfred when they’d retired. Back then, they’d decided that a young man needed prospects. Jeeves was going out and Alfred was coming in. For them, the decision had been a no-brainer.
Thus, Alfred Jeeves became Alfred Alfred, which had definitely helped his application processes. He had decided to become a janitor, but could just as easily have opted to become a butler should he find any individual rich enough to pay him. Right now, there wasn’t anyone of such wealth in Merryoak, but he acknowledged that this might change soon with Wizardball coming to town this year.
In truth, a janitor was quite like a butler, except they tended to work for corporations instead of counts and countesses. In Alfred’s mind, Wizardball Incorporated was the most successful and important corporation out there, and this made him proud to be the only janitor who had worked for them from the start.
He sneezed again, and his back gave out. The pain was so intense that he groaned out loud. No one was there to hear him, and so he steadied himself on his broom handle, stretched his back until he heard a loud crack, and continued down the corridor. He hoped to reach the stadium itself soon, because then at least he’d be outside.
When he finished cleaning, he hoped to have enough time for lunch – a good ‘toad in the sodding ‘ole’ at Merryoak Inn. His mouth watered as he imagined the taste of sausages and batter, and that got him back to sweeping, his broom scritch-scratching over the stone floor.
Time passed, and he eventually emerged into the open air. He inhaled a deep breath of freshness. A mosquito buzzed near his ear and then bit him on the cheek. He remained oblivious to it and climbed to the top of the grandstand so that he could look out over the Shiver, the vast lake around the stadium. It was a strange name, because the lake was actually quite scenic – or at least it was so today. The sky was overcast, and therefore the water had silver sheen. Behind it loomed the great oak wood from which Merryoak took its name. From here, Alfred could see both the woods and the Merryoak Commune where the witches lived. The Willowy Bog lay to the west of the commune and appeared more ominous than anything else – all eerie green light and dark shadows. He could smell the cooking coming from the Merryoak Inn and he hoped to finish his work soon so that he could appease his growling stomach.
“Alfred Alfred,” a voice said from behind him, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
He shuddered to hear that voice, as everyone always did. He turned slowly to find Griswelda Thorne peering at him from underneath her pointed black hat. Her black woollen cloak whipped dramatically around her, even though there wasn’t much wind blowing. She already had several wrinkles, but the frown on her face made them worse. To top it off, as if she didn’t already appear really witchy, she also had a large wart at the tip of her nose.
She was the worst of the witches – even older than Alfred, and grumpier than most old ladies seemed to come. If only she’d decided to become a janitor, maybe she’d have been happier in life.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Alfred said, and he might even have saluted her if he didn’t have his broom clutched tightly in both hands.
“And what in the Fourteen Hells do you think you’re doing?” Griswelda asked.
“Sweeping, Ma’am,” Alfred replied. “That’s my job.”
“I can see that you’re sweeping,” Griswelda said, peering at her long fingernails as if she planned to rake him to death with them. “That’s not my problem. My difficulty is that you’re sweeping in this building, for a specific employer, after I specifically told you not to.”
“I know you did – you said you’d turn me into a frog in fact. But then I got to thinking, and there’s nowt wrong with being a frog. You get to leap about and all. And if you’re lucky enough, I might get kissed by a maiden and turn into a young and charming and handsome man. I’d quite like being young again, wouldn’t you?”
Griswelda grimaced. “You wouldn’t do any good as a frog if I set our cat on you,” she pointed out. “I’m sure Garrett is quite partial to a good frog leg or two.”
“Ah, well, I’ve thought about that. The good thing for me is that frogs like water and cats don’t. So if he comes, I only need to hide in the Shiver until he’s gone, then I can come out and leap about some more. It seems quite appealing, really.”
Alfred could see the fury brewing in Griswelda’s eyes. He hadn’t meant to aggravate her so; he was only being honest. She’d already threatened previously to turn him into a sparrow, a mouse, a swamp monster and countless other creatures, but he’d thought of a good argument for each, like a good citizen should. To make her appear even more furious, rolling thunder boomed from the sky – even though, Alfred noted, there were no storm clouds for the thunder to boom from. This was one of Griselda’s favourite parlour tricks, manipulating the weather. Although Alfred hadn’t the foggiest as to exactly where she’d got these powers from.
“So, if not a frog, I’ll turn you into a toad!” Griswelda said. Or, if Alfred was being honest, she probably screamed it. She’d needed to, in fact, to be heard over the sounds of the roaring thunder. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Same problem there, I’m afraid, Ma’am,” Alfred said. “I’ll be larger, but I’ll also be more camouflaged. All I need do is hide near a rock.”
“Are you trying to get on my nerves? Because I warn you, young man, I’ve got plenty of ideas of what to turn you into.”
Alfred raised his eyebrows. “Why thank you for the compliment, Ma’am. I’m flattered.”
“What?”
“You called me a young man. Maybe next you can turn me into a frog and then I can get even younger.”
“You—” Griswelda took a deep breath and composed herself, then she pointed a shaky finger at Alfred until her nail was just about touching his Adam’s apple. “Look, we employ you to sweep the commune and so it’s like adultery to us that you’ve decided to work here too. Just stop supporting the wizards and their commercial Wizardball empire. They’re going to ruin this place. Nothing good will come of it, I tell you.”
Alfred was old enough now not to fear his carotid artery being cut by an angry witch’s jagged fingernail. “I’ll consider your opinion,” he said nonchalantly.
“You’d better … or else …” Griswelda put her hand to her chin for a moment. “Or else I’ll think of something new to turn you into tomorrow. And believe me, it’s going to be horrible.”
Again, thunder cracked from insubstantial clouds, and then the witch stormed back into the corridor under the grandstands. Alfred watched her go, then let out a satisfied sigh.
He turned to gaze out at the lake for a moment, then looked down at the turf at the centre of the stadium, and the magical light crystals that marked the scoring boxes at either end of the pitch that were set on top of white painted lines. Above each of the scoring boxes towered five red rings, one above the other. These also lit up when a tournament started, but currently the lights were dull.
He imagined how it would look once things really got going here – the grandstands jam packed with spectators from all over Solomond. The sky full of dragons, and griffins, and phoenixes, and every single flying mythical beast Alfred could think of. The rich smell of hotdogs and ice cream. The fanfare and the cheering and a magical metal ball known as a weezeeball flying from player to player, as each team of wizards competed to score goals through the higher rings.
This was an event that everyone, except perhaps Griswelda Thorne, had always dreamed of. Admittedly he had too, when he’d moved to Merryoak earlier this year, only to see how much of a backwater it was.
Before that, Wizardball had been a huge part of his life. His job had taken him from stadium to stadium, and he’d been able to witness each tournament. Every floor he’d swept had been worth it. This was how he’d managed to experience the greatest tournament in Solomond, from its very roots to the rip-roaring beast that it was today.
But now Wizardball was coming to Merryoak, and it was going to be gigantic. It didn’t matter whether he would be a human, a frog, a toad, or a swamp monster, he’d make damn sure to watch the event, and there was nothing that cantankerous witch could do to stop him.
Wizardball 101
From the Wizardball Official Referees Rulebook
Section 1.2: The Team
Wizardball teams consist of four players from any of the recognized sentient races within Solomond Kingdom. In addition, every team must have one player in the form of a creature familiar with some essence of sentience magicked into them.
Each player, including the familiar, must ride a living magical beast of the sky: including, but not limited to, dragons of all types and colours, phoenixes, griffins, shadowmounts [added in the 32nd edition], harpies, and rocs.
Furthermore, all players, familiar notwithstanding, must possess the proficiency to wield magic with sufficient strength to cause the weezeeball to hover in front of them during flight.
1
Zelda Sundial
Zelda Sundial trod the path around the Shiver, inhaling the fresh lake air. The rich aroma of sausages and batter rose from the kitchens of the inn located at the southernmost tip of the lake. In the distance she could hear a tinkling sound, which was strange. She had no idea where it could be coming from, as Griswelda had banned all windchimes from Merryoak Commune, saying that they softened the magic there.
Zelda had never understood why the elderly witch hated that kind of sound yet was fine with cackling magpies and screeching ravens. She suspected that if she asked her about this, Griswelda would spout some nonsense about witches having a connection to crows but not to mechanical devices. Zelda herself had never felt a particularly strong connection to any creature, except perhaps the cat, Garrett, when he looked at her with his eyes wide enough.
She had already walked the path around the lake twice today, and it was only mid-afternoon. There was little else to do right now in Merryoak Commune. This time two years ago, she might have been back at the Tent O’ Spells, brewing potions for the tourists with her two contemporaries, Phyllis and Griswelda.
The three witches had had their work cut out for them, sourcing frogs and newts and mystical plants from the bogs and lakeside, while Griswelda directed them, as only she seemed to know what would make a proper potion. Zelda had been in charge of putting the ingredients in the cauldron, while Phyllis had seized the important job of stirring with the massive wooden spoon.
Then there’d be a flash of light and a puff of smoke, and Griswelda would howl the strange sounds that she claimed were ancient words. Zelda would gasp and Phyllis would say, “Oh my!” and then Phyllis would ladle the potion into bottles. Zelda would cap and crate them, ready for one of Phyllis’ eight children – whoever was on ‘crate-carrying duty’ that day – to take them to the potion shop.
That was when all of Phyllis’s children had resided here. Now most of them had left for the cities, leaving young Carmen to look after the inn without them.
Zelda sighed as she remembered the good old days. She looked back at the inn, a three-storey edifice built of strong oak and reinforced with witch magic. The inn could easily sleep fifty, but now it barely saw three or four visitors at a time.
Over the last ten years or so, wizards had set up their ‘corporations’, with chains like ‘Scroll for Your Needs’, ‘Wizard Brew Coffee’, and ‘Magic Fish Foot Pedicures’, in cities and tourist destination outside Merryoak. It seemed this had been good for the economy in the cities, but it was bad for independent providers of services, like witches.
Phyllis had suggested to Griswelda multiple times that they should have franchised what they’d built in Merryoak Commune to other places in the kingdom to compete with the growing magical business empires. But Griswelda would have none of it.
“Witches are what witches are,” she would always say. And another common phrase of hers was, “If any of those wizards come near here, I’ll turn them into mosquitoes.”
Zelda and Phyllis on the other hand were willing to embrace the change about to arrive in the commune. The Wizardball tournament was coming to town very soon. Wizardball Incorporated had built a hotel deep in the woods that could house most of the spectators, but some of the demand for accommodation could spill out into the commune if the witches could adapt to meet it. These folks wouldn’t be interested in potions like the pilgrims and haversackers who had once frequented the commune had been. But the witches could at least provide them with good fare and, if they cleaned up their game, perhaps even a place to stay.
Phyllis, whose idea it had been to build the inn in the first place, would be thrilled. Zelda, on the other hand, cherished the hope of meeting a handsome man who would sweep her off her feet, because for sure her broomstick wasn’t doing it for her. A wizard perhaps, who could provide enough income so that she wouldn’t have to be a witch anymore – wasn’t that the dream?
After all, no birth-bound prophecy had foretold that she was destined to be a witch for all time, or so she believed. At twenty-one, she still felt she had her whole future ahead of her; she had to be ready to embrace change, and Wizardball could bring it for her. Maybe she’d even end up marrying one of the athletes.
She caught sight of Griswelda lumbering down the causeway that connected the stadium at the centre of the Shiver to the Merryoak Commune. No doubt she’d been out threatening the janitor again, although Zelda had no idea what Griswelda hoped to achieve from doing that. Zelda continued on, dreaming of a life outside the city, a world she knew was there but could not quite imagine.
She had almost reached the end of her walk, and now the distant bells sounded louder, and she soon could also hear music. There was a wagon coming up the path pulled by four horses draped in colourful livery, and she squealed in delight.
At the back of the wagon stood a troupe of musicians in rich colours; one of them was shaking a set of percussion bells, another tapped a snare drum with two remarkably polished drumsticks, another strummed on a lute, while a fourth played one of those brass instruments the wizards had invented – was it a trombone?
Seated behind the horses was a man draped in the most multicoloured and beautiful attire that Zelda had ever seen – vibrant reds and oranges and greens. All the while, in a beautiful dulcet voice that warmed Zelda’s heart, he sang:
“I’m coming your way,
But do not dismay,
Because I am here for you.
Times might be tough,
The seasons are rough,
That’s why I’ve come today.
I’m here for you,
Remember that too,
Because I am here for you …
Your very best friend,
Your loyal protector,
I’m the man of your dreams,
Your lovable tax collector.”
2
Phyllis Moon
The music jolted Phyllis Moon out of a well-appreciated nap. It had changed her dreams for the worse and she sat up in bed with a jerk.
“What in the Nine Heavens is that noise?” she asked out loud, knowing no one would hear.
That was the advantage of having a whole cottage to yourself. You could talk out loud and no one would care. The music was of the worst possible kind – muffled, so you could hear the drums and the bass through the walls but not the words.
“Disturbing the peace?” she said to herself. “Not on my watch.”
She wiggled her toes, sat on the side of the bed, and took a sip of the water on the bedside table. Garrett, their big black cat, looked up at her and yawned. He had a white stripe along the length of his back which made him appear not unlike an oversized skunk. In fact, his nickname was often ‘skunk-cat’. He didn’t seem as bothered by the music as Phyllis was.
“Don’t you think it should be the other way around, luvvie?” she asked him. “You should be skittish about loud noises, while I enjoy a good afternoon’s nap.”
The cat looked at her, blinked, yawned again, then started to lick his fur. Phyllis shook her head and took her witch’s cloak from the coat stand just by her bedside table. She’d decorated the cape a little by sewing on some pastel-coloured patches to make it look less black and grim. This had horrified Griswelda at first, but Phyllis had explained that it would make a more positive impression on the guests at the inn and maybe encourage a few more repeat customers.
Griswelda had never liked the inn or any of the changes that had happened surrounding it. She’d made that clear rather often to Phyllis. Unlike her older contemporary, Phyllis understood that these changes were necessary; after all, she needed to compete with the wizards and their corporations.
Besides, it was different for Griswelda. She’d stubbornly and contentedly (if you could pin that word on the old witch) live as a hermit in the Willowy Bogs if she had to, eating frogs for breakfast and lunch and dinner. Phyllis, on the contrary, believed in eating well.
She took one last look at the cat, who had dozed off again, then she opened the door, stepped out of the bedroom into the living area and out the front door. She stormed over to the main gate of the complex. She wasn’t usually the grumpy type, but she liked to be awakened by loud music as much as any middle-aged woman.
The racket-makers hadn’t yet arrived at the entrance to the commune; they were still too far off to even see their faces. But Zelda was standing at the gate, toying with her golden curly hair as it caught the light of the sun, her wide blue eyes gazing out at the troupe.
“Zelda,” Phyllis said, clicking her fingers in front of Zelda’s face. “Snap out of it, will you?”
She’d be happy with anything, that young witch would, so long as it came with defined cheekbones and a white, toothy smile.
“But his voice is so smooth,” she said. “I bet you he’s handsome too.”
“And have you heard what he’s singing?”
“Yes, that he’s the man of my dreams. Honestly, all this time, I never thought he’d turn up and just serenade me like this. It’s like one of those advertisements the wizards put in their broadsheets, it’s telling me exactly what I want.”
Phyllis shook her head in disbelief. “He’s saying that he’s a tax collector, Zelda. Do you know what that means? A tax collector!”
Zelda looked at Phyllis, a dumbfounded expression on her face. “I guess that means he’s rich too, right? Rich and handsome and with such a sweet voice. Oh, I can’t wait to meet him.”
“No that … doesn’t mean he’s rich. Or maybe … or … I don’t know. But it means he wants our money, Zelda. Did you hear that? Our hard-earned and rapidly dwindling supply of cash!”
Zelda looked at her and blinked. She just wasn’t getting it. “So then maybe I can marry him and then I can share his money and make it our money. Problem solved, right?”
“No,” Phyllis said. “It won’t be his money to keep. It will go higher than that.”
“So I’ll just marry his boss, then,” Zelda said.
Phyllis drummed her fingers against her thigh. “It really doesn’t work that way, luvvie. The money will go to the government, and they’ll lock it ‘safe and sound’ in the treasury, and there’ll be no way of reclaiming it then.”
Zelda seemed to ponder this for a moment, then said, “Oh … well, hopefully he’s at least handsome then.”
Before Phyllis had a chance to respond to that, she was interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet coming from behind her. She knew that walk anywhere – it had the rhythm of rage and of wrath in it, meaning Phyllis knew exactly what was coming next. Even though she’d known known Griswelda for years, it still sent a shudder down Phyllis’ spine every time she sensed her presence. The old witch was powerful like that – powerful, and always angry.
“What in the Fourteen Hells in that noise?” Griswelda growled.
“That’s exactly what I asked when it woke me,” Phyllis said.
“Then who’s he that’s making it?”
“He’s a tax collector,” Zelda said in a dreamy tone.
“What’s one of those?”
“He collects taxes,” Phyllis offered, helpfully.
“And what are ‘taxes’?”
“Well, it’s like our money,” Zelda replied. “But we give it to him, then he gives it to his boss, and his boss gives it to the government. So, I guess it’s not our money then anymore, is it?”
“No,” Phyllis said with a shake of the head and through clenched teeth. “It’s not.”
Zelda sighed.
Meanwhile, Griswelda’s eyes had narrowed in an expression of abject rage.
“Why should we give him our money?” Griswelda asked between her teeth.
Neither Phyllis nor Zelda had an answer for her. But they didn’t need one, because at that moment the tax collector drew up his horses in front of the gate. The musicians stopped playing and he stepped down from the wagon. He was as handsome as Zelda had hoped for, with oiled-back red hair and a smarmy expression. The kind of man that Phyllis wouldn’t allow her children anywhere near, let alone Zelda.
“What’s with the song?” Phyllis asked him.
He smirked, ever so slightly. “Our government wants to improve their image. It’s the only way we can compete with the demands of the corporations. I guess you could call it branding.”
“I’ll give him branding,” Griswelda muttered.
The man didn’t seem to hear. Instead, he produced a scroll from inside the folds of his brightly coloured garb, clothing that reflected far too much of the light to be sensible, and he proceeded to read from it.
“Hereby I’m ordained to inform thee, thou witches who have inherited these dwellings of ‘Ye Three Witches’ Holdings’ and the corporation founded by the three individuals that hereby encompass its deeds …”
He continued on, rambling in a way that made very little sense to Phyllis. All the while, she could literally hear Griswelda seething through a series of grunts and growls.
“Why’s he speaking in such a weird fashion?” Zelda whispered in Phyllis’ ear.
“It’s Olde Speak, luvvie,” Phyllis replied. “Government language. They add lots of unnecessary and confusing words to make it sound important.”
“But the song wasn’t like that.”
Phyllis shrugged but said nothing.
The tax collector droned on, but to his credit kept it short enough to prevent Phyllis from getting too bored. Very soon he reached his conclusion, which caused Phyllis to feel hornets somersaulting within her ribcage and doing deep dives into her stomach.
“Hereby, by the power vested in me by your humble government, I decree that you are ordered to return monies in unpaid levies and corporation tax payable to the amount of …”
And he announced a substantial number that made Phyllis weak in the knees.
3
Griswelda Thorne
On Griswelda’s long list of most annoying people, Alfred Alfred had been a mere fruit fly compared to this man who had arrived with his music. He called himself a tax collector, a concept that was unfamiliar to Griswelda. And he said they owed him monies, but Griswelda had never handled any kind of currency in her life.
Still, she knew one thing: she’d never owed anyone anything. This was one of the foundational principles of being a witch.
A cold breeze came off the Shiver behind Griswelda, and after a moment she realised she had instinctively been summoning it. She willed the clouds to gather above the lake just enough to let out another crack of thunder. A surge of glee flowed through her as she watched the tax collector trembling in his boots.
Before Phyllis and Zelda had come to stay here, this so-called commune had been swamps and oak trees. Then the cartographer had visited, appointed by the government, and said that they needed a name for the lake. She knew names for places were bad things, as they tended to attract people to them. So she’d thought of the spookiest name she could for it …
The Shiver.
Names, as it were, contained a certain magic of their own – particularly to the benefit of the granter should they happen to be a magic user. Hence, with the naming had come her ability to control the waters of the lake and the clouds above it, so at least she had gained something out of it. Not enough to flood the stadium out of existence, unfortunately, but at least enough to scare visitors.
The government had then realised their mistake in giving her such power and decided to name the rest of the place themselves. They had therefore called the entire area and the woods to the north Merryoak.
Ironically, the mystery of why such an eerie place would lie right next to such a happy one had attracted a slew of tourists. Griswelda hated this fact, not so much because she hated tourists, but because they had been brought by the government interfering in her plans.
And now they were here intervening again, and Griswelda understood nothing of what they were asking. Zelda was looking at the young bard with starry eyes, all while Phyllis seemed to be trying to explain herself out of a hole. She never understood the power of a little threat that one. She was all about commerce and keeping people happy, so Griswelda took the opportunity to step forward.
She raised the index finger of her right hand, making sure to point her nail at a precise point on the man’s throat. Any outside observer might have claimed that her hand trembled with wrath that day, but in truth, she was much more controlled than that. It was all a part of Griswelda’s calculated show.
“How dare you!” she shouted and then summoned another crack of thunder to further amplify her voice. “You come here, demanding monies. Do you even know who we are?”
The man gulped, and then he looked down and fumbled with his scroll. “Yes, you are the Ye Three Witches Incorporated of Merryoak Commune. Our records say that you’ve been established for five years, during which you have never paid any taxes.”
“Corporation? Established?” Griswelda looked at Phyllis. “What is this?”
Phyllis pursed her plump and heavily lipsticked lips. “It’s all a part of the paperwork, luvvie. Necessary bureaucracy.”
Griswelda grunted, then turned back to the tax collector. In her mind none of this was necessary; the only necessary things in life were food, water, air, and sleep.
“Now listen here, young man,” she said. “We aren’t no corporation.” She swept round her arm to indicate the stadium. “That is a corporation, and I tell you now, they’re not welcome here.”
“I’m begging your pardon, Ma’am,” the tax collector said, and he wiped a bead of sweat from his temple with his sleeve. “But you must be a corporation.”
“Really?” Griswelda said. “Says who?”
“Says the law. The only other possibilities are sole trader, which you can’t be because there’s like three of you, or a charity, which … well, let’s not go there. It doesn’t matter anyway, because you still have to pay your taxes.”
Clearly, this man didn’t think he’d had enough of the fear treatment. So Griswelda summoned up a strong gust from the lake: It had enough power in it to make her cloak billow out around her and her long hair whip about. If it weren’t for Zelda’s tight curls and Phyllis’ short brown bob, the effect might have also worked on their hair as well.
“How dare you!” she said for a second time, and edged her fingernail even closer to the man’s throat. “You think you can just turn up and demand money from three innocent ladies?”
“Well, as I’ve said, it is the law.”
“I don’t care if it’s the law or not. You will take back your demand, or I’ll turn you into a …” She stopped to think for a moment. “Into a hog. No, worse than that … I’ll turn you into a warthog. A hog with warts!”
The tax collector blinked incredulously. He took a quill from his pocket, dipped it in a pot of ink that was open on the wagon, and then wrote down a note on his scroll.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Griswelda demanded.
“Taking notes for the record,” he said. “I hope you understand that threatening an official of the law with acts of aggression, including violence, transmodification, or dismemberment is a criminal offence punishable by higher taxes.”
Zelda stepped over to Griswelda and placed a hand on her shoulder in that way she always did to calm people.
“I know how to handle this, Griswelda,” she said and gave her a sickeningly warm smile.
Griswelda only sneered at her. Zelda seemed to think that the world was made of lavender and roses. Everything could be solved through love and pacification. There was never any need for conflict at all. The young witch sidled up to the tax collector, trying to catch his gaze. She twirled a finger around on his chest near his collar.
“Maybe, sir,” she said, “there are some other ways to solve this problem. Could these taxes possibly be, what’s that word … annulled?”
The tax collector looked down at Zelda as if she were a wedge of stale cheese. “I’m sorry, but there are to be no dispensations for corporations with overdue taxes.”
Zelda inched closer to him in a way that Griswelda found awfully improper for a woman of her age. “Not even personal dispensations?” she asked, tracing a slender finger across his chin.
He shook his head, took a step back and coughed into his sleeve. “I’m afraid not, Ma’am,” he said. “The only way to absolve overdue taxes is to either pay them through monies or, failing that, repossession of assets. I’m sorry, but that’s the law.”
Zelda stepped back from the man looking ever so slightly offended, and this irked Griswelda even more.
“Well, you can take your law,” Griswelda said, and now she really was furious. “And you can take your branding.” She raised her arms and gathered the clouds as quickly as she could over the horses. “And you can take your fancy clothes, and your horses, and your stupid music and songs.”
She saw Phyllis and Zelda exchange glances, but didn’t care what they were thinking right now. She could feel the energy building within her – so much rage, so much unnecessary change – why had the world become this way?
The sky darkened. The air grew gravid with vapour and static.
“And you can take your scrolls, and your ink that stinks, and your meaningless taxes.”
The rage inside her had become incandescent. Her muscles ached with wrath, and she had no choice but to channel this power out of her. She fed it into the clouds, and they sparked and roared and then they released her fury in the form of lightning from the sky.
It hit the ground just a few yards away from the horses, causing them to whinny and kick up their feet.
“You can take it all back to the government and leave it there, because if you bring it back here, then I will turn you all into little pimples, and I’ll scoop you up one by one, and I’ll put you in the cauldron, and make a powerful potion out of you and you won’t like that at all.”
Griswelda even noticed Phyllis and Zelda shuddering in their shoes this time. She’d done well with this one.
The tax collector’s eyes widened in terror. He looked back at his horses and his troupe and then, without turning back, he took up his inkwell and scroll and climbed up onto the wagon. He took hold of the reins and turned the horses around.
Before he left, he turned his head back towards Griswelda and he looked her straight in the eye. She glared back at the coward, knowing he had no chance at winning a staring competition against her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I cannot leave without presenting you with rest of the information. You have six months to pay your taxes, and if you fail to do so, the Wizard Guard will come to Merryoak Commune to claim assets. And believe me, Griswelda Thorne, powerful as you are, you won’t stand a chance against them.”
Before Griswelda, or any of the witches for that matter, had a chance to respond he took hold of the reins and sent his horses galloping down the road away from the commune.
There was a minute or so of silence, before the music and the singing started up again.
