Chapter One, The Mage.
Dorren sat on the stool, behind the counter, his body slumped backwards, leaning against the wall. Three more hours, he thought drearily – only three more hours. He’d arrived at the store about six hours ago, like always. The Shop owner, Mr Tomlinson, had greeted him and like usual had said he was going to pop out for a few minutes and per usual hadn’t returned. This had been the routine for every Friday … Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, too, come to think of it. The shop owner was by all accounts a drunken lout. Off everyday to the pub from early in the morning returning at closing time, after having been kicked out, to collapse on the floor of the shop, often trying to hit Dorren for stealing his precious produce. Dorren would take that as his cue to leave and off he would go, locking the sleeping Mr Tomlinson in the store and setting of to his one room “house”. Even so Dorren supposed the job would have been okay – if there had been a single customer, who had wanted to buy something and not just ask for directions. But the town was so small and everyone knew that Mr Tomlinson’s General Store, some general food – a few meats, oats, simple things, which everyone owned themselves, and of course, Mr Tomlinson’s speciality, Jams and chutneys. How could you get strawberry jam wrong? Maybe that’s why he drinks himself into a stupor, Dorren mused, so he doesn’t have to remember making the foul stuff.
The door slid open, the bell at the top of the door chiming. Dorren jumped up from his chair knocking his seat back, and had to whirl around catching the tip of the wooden stool in the edge of his finger tips. Pulling it upright he turned to see who had come in. Standing before him, in the wooden doorway, stood a small, diminutive, man. He started walking forward, past the numerous oak shelves lining the walls which were piled high with jars. . He was just over five feet tall dressed in an outfit of black. His hair was a deep mirrored his clothing – black – and was precisely combed into place; there was a black symmetry about him, with everything made to match. His eyes were small and caught up in a permanent squint as if he was scrutinising everything he saw. His nose was flat and his mouth, a small line, was curled upwards in a bemused and superior smile as he came up to the counter. He was the complete opposite of Dorren. Dorren stood close to six feet tall, with wavy blonde hair; he had a pointed nose and a large mouth – which remained impassive, Dorren instantly not liking the man.
He spoke in a deep ringing voice, demanding Dorren’s full attention. “Id like a few bags of oats and a few jars of the best jam you’ve got boy.”
Dorren turned around and examined the several layers of oaken shelves, laden with a variety of jams. Dorren scanned though them, wondering whether to choose a good or bad jam for the man who obviously thought himself demeaned by having to talk to someone as lowly as a shopkeeper. Spotting one which was okay, a simple raspberry jam, he stepped up and plucked it from the shelf
Turning he said, “This is very good, one of Mr. Tomlinson’s best,” adding silently to himself, not that, that means anything.
The man seemed to squint harder and then said. “Yes that will do fine, I’ll take a dozen along with those oats,” he said reaching into his pocket and flipping out a coin as Dorren reached under the table a pulled out a few bags of oats. Dorren took the money gathered together the jams and oats and picked up the coin, a silver piece – grossly higher than what the stuff costs – the man was just showing off and costing him quite a lot of time counting together his change.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the man.
“16,” Dorren replied, slightly off guard from the suddenness of the question.
“Ahh, so I guess you’ll be at the magicians’ talent test today, wont you?” It wasn’t a question.
Dorren looked more closely at the man, suddenly spotting the insignia of the magicians on the top right of his shirt, air, water, earth and fire with a clenched fist binding them all together.
“Yes, sir, I suppose so sir,” Dorren said formality taking over.
Dorren handed back his change and passed over the chutneys in a bag.
“I’ll hold you to that, it’s at seven in the town centre – just so you know,” The mage said smiling. He turned and started to walk away, only to stop and throw back some of the change. “You can buy me a drink when you get there.”
Well Dorren guessed he had to go after that, the man was a mage and he’d bound Dorren with those coins. The door swung shut after the men, the bell chiming away once more. Dorren sighed glumly; he guessed he’d be getting home late tonight. Glancing at the afternoon sun outside, he shook his head in dismay. Two and a half hours to go.
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