*Note: This used to be Chapter 2.1, in case anyone was confused.
Chapter 3: The Stars Shuddered (revised 2/13)
The Moon Dance was only a prick of illumination compared to the desolate blackness of the surrounding wood. Malachi hurdled over the fallen oaks and stray brambles, his heart beating anxiously. The music from the clearing became thinner the further he strayed from the celebration. The people’s houses were dark, only the glow of the moon and the yellow eyes of the night owls leading his way.
Follow the sound of the waves, Malachi told himself through the unfamiliar darkness. Whenever he'd been lost on his long walks to the tower, he'd always followed the sound, knowing it would lead him the right direction. As Malachi followed, the sound grew more resonant, until he saw the tip of Hawthorn’s tower peeking out from the trees.
Malachi’s heart settled. The lights were on. Hawthorn must have been feeling under-the-weather and couldn't attend the festival. His pace slowed, his breath eased. Malachi rapped on the wooden door. The hollow sound echoed through the clearing—not a stir.
“Master Hawthorn!” he called, knocking once again. Silence. His heart began to race.
Malachi twisted the doorknob and pounded his fist against the wood. “HAWTHORN!” he yelled desperately through quick, cool breaths. The heavy door was bolted shut. Malachi leapt from the stairway and sprinted to the back window, pressing his hands to its ancient glass. The window, too, was bolted shut. With a groan, he heaved himself up to the ledge and kicked his foot through the glass, shattering it to pieces. Malachi pulled his body through the opening, scraping his stomach against a shard of glass. He felt the unpleasant warmth of his own blood trickle down his leg as he tumbled inside with a thud.
The house was quiet, but the surrounding air seemed to be moving. Pieces of golden lights waltzed slowly around Malachi’s head like a rotating wheel; little silver fairies spread their wings and swam through the air. The speckles of light seemed to culminate at the bottom of the staircase, then paraded their way, one by one, up the steps. Malachi paused, mesmerized, forgetting his distress, like a very happy dream.
And he followed. The specks of light tempted him up the stairs, no longer creaking like they always had. The tower no longer smelled of cabbage and dust, but held the sweet aroma of rich perfume and daffodils. Calm and rather comfortable, Malachi ascended the staircase, dazed.
Hawthorn’s house had four stories. He slept on the first. His bed was perched on a large shelf in the corner beside a grand window overlooking the lake. At night he liked to watch the stars and speculate on the movement of the constellations. Beside his bed was a nightstand with a candle and a little rusting bookshelf. Colored scarves were strung from beam to beam on the ceiling. Little trinkets and statues decorated the rest of his lair. Malachi followed the lights to the second story, the cleared-out room where Hawthorn taught him to perform magic. He peered in, looking for the old sorcerer. This room, too, was filled with the glittering fairy-lights. It smelled of champagne. There was no sign of Hawthorn.
The lights moved upwards to Hawthorn’s study. His great mahogany desk sat majestically in the center of the room, its chair empty. Malachi remembered feeling dwarfed by the seat the first day he'd sat before Hawthorn, his newly-appointed apprentice, bravely bombarding the old Protector with questions and thoughts as his master chuckled joyously before him.
The lights were moving faster now, in groups of three or four, up the staircase and onto the fourth floor. He’d never laid eyes on at whatever was behind the door the stairs led to. For the first time since Malachi had begun visiting Hawthorn’s tower, the fourth-story door was wide open, though his vision was blocked by the clusters of lights swarming inside. Was Hawthorn casting some sort of secret enchantment? Malachi thought to himself, suddenly feeling very embarrassed that he’d broken in. He stepped closer, his curiosity getting the best of him. Of course Hawthorn will understand I’ve been worried. The closer he came to the forbidden entryway, the more his vision was obstructed by the raging lights. The sheer brightness of them was blinding, like he’d stepped into another world. They spun round like a carousel; the room suddenly became very windy and cool, the crisp air pressing against Malachi’s warm cheeks. The floor beneath him seemed to open up and swallow him whole like a great fish, devouring his body but leaving his spirit to dwell with the enchanting lights. Someone began to sing. Their voice grew louder, louder until they were screaming in his ear, commanding him, controlling him.
For the first time since he’d stepped into the tower, Malachi pulled up the energy from within himself to speak.
“Hawthorn,” he whispered. At last, he opened his eyes.
It was like he’d broken a curse. The lights had vanished, replaced with a single lamp, flickering hazily in the shadows. Hawthorn lay on the ground, his arms and legs outstretched and limp. His eyes were glazed over and greyer than they’d ever been before. A river of purple liquid flowed from the corner of his mouth onto the floor. Malachi crouched and touched his hand, noticing a little glass bottle clenched between his fingers. It read: CONTENTS FATAL IF SWALLOWED.
Malachi’s breath ran short. The great wizard Hawthorn had drunk himself dead.
Good luck, and keep writing!
Points: 23295
Reviews: 264
Donate