He Who Has Magic
Slowly Cricket sir reached a hand for his face, where his scar laid, and as Sir Cricket had never not once tried to hurt him and had always showed patience and calm when he needed him most, he relaxed at the thought that it would all be well once Cricket sir took over, solving all his problems as he always had.
Then, as if still in dream, he awoke inside himself but not in control, and observed as his body became warm once again, and as he wondered what to make of this situation and whether to trust good old Sir Cricket who had taken over just as he had promised he found that all the same it didn't matter much, for the second he finished this thought he felt himself compress and reappear, as if he had been re-imagined in a new setting.
His body walked then, holding its head high, his back straight and with much more confidence than he had ever had before, “Cricket sir must be a really confident somebody” he thought to himself. They were entering a wonderful building, tall and robust, like a coliseum, made of white marble and lovely glass paintings. Right in front of him a big gold statue, of curious and curiouser creatures, and men and woman, and water and pointy hats and sticks!
Not faced Sir Cricket continued down his path, through hallways and doors and men and women with wands and hats and the strangest of all clothes, and they all had names! Arthur, and Miriam, and Fortescue, and Jerome and all sorts of names for all sort of people, strange people and yet regardless all named, it was a wonderful place indeed.
Tap, tap, tap, his shoes against the floor, until finally it seemed, they had arrived. A closed door stood in the way of Sir Cricket and try as he might it just wouldn’t budge. He found himself frustrated at being unable to aid Cricket sir in his inexplicable pursuit. Click, click, click, they heard steps down the hall. Sir Cricket guided his body against a wall, which seemed rather naïve to him given that even while being immobile one was still visible, but as he had no control at the moment, he was forced to simply offer his judgment as passing commentary.
A woman passed by them, and her eyes swept right by them without a hint of recognition! Sporting a pointy and colourful hat that would’ve sent his family into hysterics, she passed a lap of the hall in confused silence. Cricket Sir was stirred by the interaction, he could feel his aim sharpen on the white stick the woman had waved around like one feels a headache coming.
Tip, tip, tip, Sir Cricket guided them to a teeny tiny desk at the end of the hall where the woman had settled down on, an open magazine blocking her view. The moving pictures on the cover distracted him off what Cricket Sir was attempting to do. Atop the desk the long white stick rested away from the woman, he wondered what name she bore as Sir Cricket reached for it.
With it, Cricket sir descended down the hall back to the door. He was unsure what to make of Sir Cricket’s problem solving, for he was an extraordinarily wise child himself and as such he knew that it was just an undeniable truth that the only who could make of a simple stick a tool were magical. And he had not, unfortunately, been blessed with such power. He had tried plenty in his old house, when hungry and scared to perform some mystical act of saving for himself but had been unsuccessful in every instance. It is with this knowledge that he observed pityingly as the stick was raised and an incantation akin to a spell was pronounced.
Amusement was felt inside his head at the thoughts from Cricket sir, and as his confusion grew to wonder once the act was triumphant, he was forced to question the notion of his own abilities as well. It was given that only a magical someone would posses the quality of wielding a stick as a wand, it was also assumed he himself was not a magical someone. It was then that, either he had been wrong about his own self, or perhaps the notion of magical prowess was but a misinformed myth. “Which is it then?” He wondered, “Am I a witch or is it the wand, who is the witch?”.
The door had opened regardless, not concerned by his inner questioning, or perhaps having already solved it; being the witch itself, perhaps. Click, click, click, down the hall. It appeared the stick had been missed much more than anticipated, click, click, click louder and louder and closer and closer.
Sir Cricket rushed them inside, closing the door before the woman could make heads or tails of him or his location. A most curious room welcomed them upon arrival, long shelves seemed to stretch on forever, by his left, by his right, and by his front he could perceive no other walls but the one hosting the door he himself entered from.
Round luminescent globes were displayed on every last space of the shelves, cluttered as if the endless space was still far too small for the sheer number of items needed archived. “Why surely there is a much better way of storing, well—anything at all,” he reasoned “whatever this must be, it is truly a pitiful state for it.”
“Prophecies.” Whispered a voice inside his head.
“Cricket Sir? Is that you?” He answered, still inside his own thoughts.
“Your name, child.”
“I fear I’ve got none, dear Sir.”
“I said I would guide you to it, did I not child? Prophecies are invoked upon only the greatest of men, and somewhere amid this room, a prophecy with your name awaits you.”
“My very own name?” He thought back, doubtful of a hopeless endeavour as such.
“I wouldn’t lie to you, dear boy.”
Against such strong logic he had little option but to attempt a light search for something so improbable he had thought it a matter of fairytales for as long as he had been aware of things such as matters and fairytales.
“If it is so, there is no use in wasting time! We must make haste!” he told himself, rather harshly, scolding himself as he often did. He, most often than not, was one to discipline himself greatly and relentlessly, lest it be he made his already strange presence an even more eye-catching event. On one memorable occasion, he had brought himself to tears for having taken up too much time off his reading time with poorly made chores, for he needn’t be punished by none as he was more than capable of it himself, not that his aunt or uncle had ever bothered to do so before.
While traversing the shelves with no success, he discovered a most curious occurrence; the globes, who had no real state shifting between mist and solid (a who as he had no proper clue if it was considered alive at all), emitted a light feeling, like magnetism in various distinctive flavours, some almost familiar whilst others stood the hair on his arms in a distinct flavour of wrong.
“This way I should be able to find the right one!” He thought. “And if it shall find it, it shall allow my touch no problem, and if not I shall keep on searching for I truly have very little else to do.”
He knew as soon as he touched it, because he could. Touch it, that is, as the enigmatic globes had eluded his grasp with varying degrees of urgency. This one was his, it sat on his hand leaving a strong impression of conscious comfort, wobbling in appreciation.