I Will Return: Chapter 1

*Note: This used to be the prologue, in case anyone was confused*

Chapter 1: Iné mot’ta (updated 2/13)

“Casting spells is far from simple, Malachi. You must spell out its every letter with your complete heart—reach for the words; surrender your mind and body to the incantation.”

Malachi shut his eyes, heavy with the weight of a week of intense lessons, concentrating on the great Protector’s every word through his sleepiness. Ancient grey dust crept down his throat like snakes. The room had a low, slanted wooden ceiling and a rotting floor, cleared out for the purpose of conducting Malachi’s apprenticeship classes. Lining the sides of the room were hundreds, maybe thousands, of odd wooden objects and gadgets, coated in a layer of dust. Piles of old, forgotten spellbooks lay on the ground. A chandelier loomed above them like a moon.

Hawthorn continued, “If Moses can part the Red Sea, surely you can part these minuscule waters?” Hawthorn smirked, noticing the grey bags hanging below Malachi’s eyes. He glanced his hollow eyes up at the grandfather clock in the corner. It was half past midnight. “Or are you not up for the challenge at such a late hour?”

Malachi lowered his eyebrows and shifted his feet. “I’m ready,” he muttered.

“What was that?” Hawthorn mocked with a chuckle.

Malachi cleared his throat. “I’M READY!”

Hawthorn’s long, skeletal body suddenly locked into place, his arms at his side. His eyes glazed over and shone in the light; his arms stretched behind his head like a slingshot preparing to fire. For a moment he bore his long, yellowing teeth in a gruelling grimace. The ages of sorcery cast onto him had thoroughly stretched his skin and bent his so he hardly resembled an ordinary human, but was more like some sort of wild animal. The energy in the room rose, the spellbooks and magical artefacts surrounding their space became masked with a soft blue fog emitting from the tip of Hawthorn’s long finger. Hawthorn pointed his nails towards Malachi. The sapphire mist became a surge of cold water which flooded the room with rushing waves. Billows of saltwater struck his legs and specks of foam spat on his cheeks.

Nestled on the other side of a man-made ocean was Hawthorn’s frail body, his robes flowing with raging wind, his naked feet blue with the tide below him, eyes locked in concentration.

Malachi raised his arm. “Iné ... mot’ta.” he coughed, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater. The waves shuddered and laughed, mocking his failure to tame them.

“LOUDER!” boomed Hawthorn, his face lost beneath sheets of wave and water, his arms outstretched as breakers of sea and wave expelled from his enchanted hands.

“Iné mot’ta!” shouted the boy wizard to a meager shudder and light rise in the surrounding waves. Hawthorn scowled.

Malachi shut his eyes, reaching, trying to pull an ounce of peace from the depths of his soul. The water tickled his shoulders and stirred a slight shiver before he relaxed his body and sunk into another mindset, dismissing his surroundings from his scope of the world. His vision flooded with black but for a tiny sparkle of light. Malachi imagined himself reaching for the speck of illumination and grabbing it with his fingers, throwing it into the next world.

Malachi opened his eyes. “INÉ MOT’TA!” His heart released the incantation like an arrow. It soared through the rising waters, cutting through the sea and breaking apart the rumbling waves. The waters evened and flattened, then reached for either side of the room, clinging to the windows on one end and the bookshelves on the other, building a gold-lined trail from Malachi to his master, like a path of the gods.

Hawthorn chuckled heartily. “You’ve done it, Malachi!” he exclaimed. “You’ve performed the iné mot’ta!” The old wizard’s eyes shone with delight and pride in his student, then traced back into concentration as he snapped this finger and drew water out of the room, as if it’d never been there. “A regular Moses, I’d say," he declared, no longer the intimidating sorcerer he'd been moments before.

Malachi beamed at his teacher and offered a courteous bow, then wiped the sweat from his tired brow.

Hawthorn offered Malachi a seat and placed his arm on the boy’s shoulder. “Magic’s a curious thing, Malachi. It has saved lives and restored cities, but it has begun wars and stirred conflict. It has united and divided, broken and built. And for that reason, it’s not that good of a thing much at all.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

“It is our hearts that make us who we are, not our abilities. And that is the most important lesson a magician—or a future Protector—can learn.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hawthorn stood and smiled at Malachi.“Off you go, now. It’s late. Another night like this and you’re sure to catch a cold. I’ll say tomorrow we hold off on lessons. It’s the Moon Dance after all! You wouldn’t want to miss the festivities!”

“Thank you, sir. Will I see you tomorrow night?”

“I’m sure you’ll see me around.”

Hawthorn adjusted his tie and glanced at the ceiling. He sighed, suddenly solemn. “Off you go, Malachi. You’re due for some rest.” He began to hum the Moon Dance hymn to himself as Malachi descended the staircase. Malachi opened the chipped wooden door, exposing himself to the summery air that clothed the dark forest that was his home. There was an eerie, special feeling to this part of the wood which filled him with fluttering excitement and energy despite his insomnia the last few nights. The water surrounding the rest of the island of Vagor was still, but at Hawthorn’s tower, waves crashed splendidly against the shore. Their whisper was faint, but Malachi could still hear the tide licking the sea shore as he stepped off of Hawthorn’s porch into the deserted forest.

“Good night, Hawthorn.” The old wizard was behind him, seeing him off for the night.

“Good night, my good apprentice.”