The Days of Magic

By E. D. Miller

Moherron is the middle child of three in a loving, sharecropper family. When drought plagues his family farm and illness strikes his eldest brother, Moherron desperately prays for rain to end his family’s suffering. Through his pleas, he makes a disastrous discovery.
As he ages, he can never shake the idea that what had occurred was magical in nature and that he had caused it. While adjusting to a new life as best he can, the love of a foster father and brother are not enough to remove the uncertainty that plagues him. Haunted by years of guilt, he decides to leave everyone behind and venture through the perils of wild forest and mountains to see if magic really exists. In his journey he makes discoveries that show magic is more real than he had ever imagined.
The Days of Magic explores the world of fantasy in a way that shows how the unlikeliest of people can change the world remarkably. The journey of a young boy carries the reader through gripping adventures that will ignite imagination and instigate questions about how close our own world can be to that of myth and legend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. D. Miller
• Release date: Jun 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476011899

E. D. Miller

E. D. Miller has written short stories and poetry for much of his life. He has developed a career in the field of writing after graduating from Virginia Tech with a degree in English. He is the author of The Days of Magic, a fantasy novel, and a book of poetry titled A Journey Through Time: 100 Poems Inspired From Youth to Now. Today, he lives in Texas with his wife and two daughters. Like the Facebook fan page: facebook.com/author.E.D.Miller Follow on Twitter: @e_d_miller

Book preview

Chapter I: From Myth to Miracle

The door opened with a squealing creak. Three dirty figures scrambled out of the tiny house and raced into the dusty fields ahead.

One, two, three… I’m going to find you both…four, five, six, counted the boy, his eyes covered with his grimy fingers. An orb of blue peered through the slit of his middle and index fingers, beyond the curly blonde lock that curtained his view. It twinkled with an innocent glimmer in the dawn’s light.

Moherron, stop peeking! the tallest of the three exclaimed. Stop trying to cheat.

Okay, Taragon, okay, Moherron uttered resignedly. One, two, three, he restarted.

Taragon kicked up dust that sprinkled his torn, brown pants as he walked in the direction opposite of where Moherron last saw him heading. He tried to muffle a cough in his dingy, yellowed shirt sleeve to conceal his whereabouts and brushed back his blonde hair with his hand. Merigue, the littlest of the three boys, darted behind the nearby, rickety stable unaware of Moherron’s infraction of the rules. Moherron continued to count in a whisper and enjoyed the warm breeze that broke the sun’s persistent gaze.

Forty-niiiiine, fifty! Moherron shouted, pulling his hands from his small, tan face. Where could he be? Moherron thought, gazing across the flat, parched fields before him. His eyes skimmed across every crack in the earth and toward every object that could offer refuge. To his right stood the stable, and beyond, the pathway leading to the Blstflagrseg, the river that ran less than a couple miles from the farmhouse, where the three would often swim and fish. Ahead lay nothing but the vast fields of Locklnd to where the mountains crested the horizon in a blur. Checking left, Moherron noted every pile of wood and barrel that Taragon could hide behind, as well as the empty cart rested on the sun-baked plot where crops once grew in abundance. The dust swirled in tiny whirlwinds, kicking up strands of wilted, brown vegetation as Moherron strode toward the stable.

Found ya, Moherron said, acknowledging his huddled brother. Merigue, clothed in a worn, brown shirt and pants that were cut to length and secured around his waist with cord, groaned at being found. He uncovered his blonde head from beneath his arms and stood up, neck-high to Moherron.

No fair! he said with his eyes welling up. How come you always find me?

You make it too easy, Merigue, Moherron chuckled. Every time, you hide behind the stable. You just pick a different side. I can’t help but find you.

Merigue’s eyes stopped tearing as he stood and looked around him. He looked around the corner to the back side of the stable and then toward its front where the gate swayed slowly in the breeze. His hazel eyes brightened as he giggled, realizing the truth of Moherron’s observation. Moherron walked away from his younger brother, who now rolled with hysteria in the dirt where he was discovered, and surveyed the surrounding terrain for the greater challenge. Where’d he hide this time, Moherron pondered aloud. His excitement built as he pondered discovering his brother’s hiding place. This was the day, he thought, that he would outwit Taragon. As the hours wore on, and Moherron did not succeed in finding his brother, he gave up, disheartened, and headed inside.

The sun began its decent across the horizon and the specks of dust sparkled in the twilight. Moherron walked into the house, perplexed and defeated. The door squeaked shut behind him as he kicked off his shoes onto the straw mat that lay next to the door. He noticed them land with a puff of dirt on top of two pairs of tattered shoes.

You cheated, Moherron declared. You can’t hide in the house! He walked into the kitchen where his brother sat in a chair by the plain, pinewood table in the dining room. Moherron stopped his rant as he noticed his mother holding a damp cloth to Taragon’s head.

Moherron slid a chair from under the table and sat beside Taragon. Is it coming back? Moherron asked apprehensively.

I don’t think Taragon should be playing outside for a while, their mother replied. She crossed the room with a swishing of her old and off-white day dress. She pressed her frail, tan hand with a wet washcloth against Taragon’s forehead and looked at him with concern in her tender, blue eyes. Her long curls of blond draped around her weathered yet dainty face. He’s burning up and it seems all the activity is just wearing him out. Let him rest and try not to wear yourselves out too much either. I don’t want you or Merigue to come down with anything.

We won’t, Ma, Merigue said, popping his head above the tabletop next to Moherron. I’m feeling’ fine.

That’s good, dear, she replied. Let’s just try to keep it that way.

Ma? asked Moherron timidly. Do you think he’s going to be okay?

I’m sure, dear, she answered condolingly. We just need to let him rest and have a little more food so he can get his strength back. The best thing we can all do is say our prayers for him and make him comfortable, right son?

I guess so, Taragon replied, hacking a wet cough. Merigue winced as he noticed a glob of bloody phlegm on the corner of Taragon’s mouth.

Fetch some food from the pantry for you and your brothers, please, Moherron, his mother said to him. I will eat with your father later when he finishes the chores. Perhaps you should all get an early rest tonight.

Moherron went to the pantry and opened the door. He scanned the shelves and saw a few crusts of bread, a basket of aging vegetables, several jars of dried spices, and herbs in between the vast spaces of emptiness. Moherron took a few fruits from the table beside the pantry and added that with the pieces of bread and some fresh milk from the cold chest. He produced the sparse meal before his brothers and the three ate in relative silence. Merigue cleaned the table and washed the cups in the wash bucket when they had all finished.

Moherron looked at his elder brother with somberness and then left the table to retire to his room. He felt troubled and helpless all at once. Merigue followed shortly behind him and crawled into his bed below Moherron’s bunk. The two said nothing more until they fell asleep, finally able to ignore the sickly sounds of coughing and wheezing in the distance.

The bare window allowed the rays of the morning sun to flood into the room where the three children slept. The shadows dwindled until the light chased them away from Moherron’s eyes. He squinted as the beams stung his eye through its lid. After a slight reluctance, Moherron sat up in his bed and stretched his arms almost to the planks of the ceiling. A few strands of straw wove their way through the worn threads of his bed sheet in the night, and he jostled his leg as one poked his thigh.

Thud! Moherron’s feet landed on the aged yet sturdy floorboards and turned to the linen cocoon in the bunk below his. Up, up, Moherron said in a forceful whisper. He looked at Taragon asleep in the bed a few feet behind him, and took care to leave his sick brother resting in his attempts to rouse Merigue. Come on, get up, he continued, giving the thin, once-white sheet a light tug. We have a lot to do today; let’s go now, he persisted while batting away Merigue’s flailing arm and unveiling him with a firm pull of the sheet.

Alright, I’m up! Merigue shouted.

Hush, you! Moherron reprimanded with a lowered brow. Wake yourself up, not the entire world. Taragon’s still sleeping and Mama said he should have his rest. Get yourself dressed and we can start our chores. We should try to do some of Taragon’s too.

Okay, Merigue agreed in a whisper. The two tiptoed around the room and collected their clothes from the footlocker at the base of their bunk beds. They dressed with caution and snuck out of the house with no more than the creaks of the floor and the closing of the front door behind them.

The bonds between the Dragonroots, Moherron’s surname, were incredibly strong. With no others nearby, the family was confined to their own, though they sufficed well with the arrangement. On a normal day all three children would help their father with the chores of planting, harvesting, milking, building, etc., as best they could, while their mother cleaned the house, prepared the meals, and harvested the eggs from the dolpher coup. And each did these things gladly, as the two did this day despite their brother’s absence. They were all proud to have a hand in the humble fortunes of their family.

A few hours passed into the morning and the boys were making good time in completing their duties when they were interrupted by a most pleasant breeze. The air carried a wave of frying gant and dolpher eggs that broke the sharp hay odor of the fields. Almost simultaneously, the boys abandoned their tasks and bound for the house.

Breakfa…, their mother began to shout as she opened the door outside, but the boys skipped up the steps, Moherron in a single leap, through the door before she could finish. Moherron’s mouth salivated as he sat at the table where his father was already perched.

How are your chores coming? she asked the boys. They all proclaimed their progresses and inquired if they could both play, pending they finished early enough. I’m afraid there won’t be time for that, she replied. The children looked a bit saddened and wondered what was needed of them later. I think you should finish up your work and then help your father for the remainder of the day.

Yes, I’ll need the company this afternoon, I’m sure, said their father.

What will you need us to do? asked Moherron.

Well, Taragon will have to stay here and rest, but it is a long trip into town by myself. So I thought perhaps you two could join me, their father said, chuckling, noticing their now-beaming expressions. The boys cheered and smiled. That is of course, the man continued, if all of your chores are done before I’m ready to leave.

The boys gulped their breakfast with ravenous speed and nearly trampled each other rushing to the door. They ran with haste to the field to finish their day’s tasks with fervor, thinking of their upcoming trip.

Unlike some farms in more suburban areas of Locklnd, the Dragonroot farm provided for the needs of the family and no more, and on the occasions when the harvest had been exceptionally abundant the boys and their father would ride to the nearest town on the only transportation they ever had, a sole marflkt and cart. The boys would shout with glee during these rare trips to the town market and would drown out the squeaks of the rickety cart’s wheels with their laughter.

This trip was different however, and the singing of the wheels was the only sound nearly the entire voyage. Moherron and Merigue sat to each side of their father uttering not a word.

Wow! Merigue exclaimed, breaking the silence. He pointed his tiny hand toward the horizon, and Moherron and he smiled as the rooftops of the town came into view. Moherron had only made this journey a few times before in his memorable life, each time special and joyful, and the vision of Hoksknfol was well marked in his mind. He identified with Merigue’s excitement, remembering his first trip to town, his brothers at his side, and the cart overflowing with shnertz, felsng, and a plethora of other vegetables. It seemed as if he could still smell the earthy perfume of that bounty, though no such harvest came on this trip.

Is that Hoksknfol? Merigue asked with an excited tone, bouncing lightly in his seat. Are we finally here? Oh, boy!

Yes, son, his father said, putting a straw hat upon his short, light brown-haired head. Here we are. Now I want you two to behave and stay out of trouble while we’re here. You ‘stand boys?

Yes, Pop, the two answered.

Moherron, I expect you to watch out for Merigue here. Don’t let him run off anywhere, and stick to where you are familiar yourself. Merigue, you mind your brother and stay with him. I’ll go to the apothecary and see what I can find. Then, I’m going to the market. I expect you both at the gate before sundown.

I’ll take care of him pop, said Moherron. We’ll be at the gate before sundown, too.

Good boy, Moherron, he replied. Maybe you’ll find some kids to play with. Just stay safe and out of mischief. Moherron thought about this and a small smile grew on his lips.

At last the cart hushed its squealing and came to rest. Moherron’s father stepped down from his seat and wiped the dust off of his sun-beaten, thin face with an old, green handkerchief. He placed the rag into the pocket of his worn overalls and wiped the dust from his hands onto his dirty, tan undershirt. The boys vaulted out of their seats and ran toward the gate. A large man stood at the entrance and eyed the two boys. They stopped and looked up at the behemoth. Moherron felt as if his eagerness was bottled with the man’s stare, waiting to burst free in an instant. The gatekeeper glared for a moment and grunted, and the boys scampered off into the town while their father secured the marflkt to a post outside the gate.

People had always intrigued Moherron. Being so foreign to population, Moherron took interest in the dealings of people as if they were a curious species unlike him. Like a family of entertaining squirrels, the bustling townsfolk fascinated the young boy immensely. He gazed about the streets of Hoksknfol and reveled at the children who were running in and out of alleyways and giving grief to the travelers who wished to pass through without trampling one under their marflkt’s hooves. The noises of the town were a great contrast to the serenity of the open fields, and the jeers of children playing, the conversations of numerous neighbors, and the haggling of the sellers in the market were music to Moherron’s innocent ears.

When Moherron’s father would peddle his crop to the townsfolk, he often allowed the boys to roam the town providing they stay out of trouble. While not having enough time to make any real friends, the boys would occasionally come upon a few acquaintances and participate in the games of the youngsters. Moherron anticipated finding one of these occasional comrades and joining in a round of frozl or other equally entertaining pastime. For a moment, he noted a pain for the absence of Taragon, but quickly became caught up in the sights, sounds, and scents of Hoksknfol. More often than not, the smells of burning herbs and brewed barley, a distinct and intriguing difference from the pungent hay aroma of the farm, would draw them to the local pub. A familiar and beloved fragrance caught Moherron by the nostril and he tugged on Merigue’s sleeve to follow.

The elders of the town were no strangers to the occasional passerby youths, and they enjoyed the company of the children as much as the children enjoyed theirs. Bartelby Grumpf was a regular at the Unicorn’s Horn, and held countenance with many of the townsfolk and travelers from afar. He held a reputation for being a harmless old drunkard that amused the children with tales, and, giving adults time to handle their affairs, parents had no aversion to letting their children go to hear the stories of the old man. Only a few of the mothers in town protested his tales, which often referred to magic and wizards, saying that they disapproved of filling the children’s heads with such ridiculous nonsense, but the children would listen to the tales regardless. Grandpa Grumpf he came to be known by many children who saw him in town. The Waggler he came to be known by the adults for how he waggled his tongue with fanciful tales. Moherron had met the long-bearded, elderly man before, Taragon having made the introduction. Bartelby had astounded Moherron with his stories upon their meeting, and since then, Moherron looked forward to sitting in the presence of the fenegrkz aroma that was the common perfume of Bartelby. He was a favorite of many of the children, for his fantasies far exceeded the grandeur of others’ tales, and he was a natural-born storyteller. The animate telling of knights’ adventures, stories of witches, and more lighthearted anecdotes would have the children in stitches with laughter or scared to go to sleep at night without fail. Even the adults within earshot of his theatrics would often listen intently to Bartelby’s rendition of folklore. The Dragonroot brothers, Moherron most particularly, were captivated by Bartelby’s orations and made way to the pub upon every visit into town where they found him always, sipping on qualfrt and smoking fenegrkz. After traipsing in and out of several shops and finding a few acquaintances with whom the boys played some games, they eventually made their way to the place where they’d surely hear a great tale.

Gather ‘round, children, Bartelby said with a hacking cough. Well, well! So many of you today! I do believe some faces I have not seen in quite some time, he said with a twinkle in his dark green eyes and a smile that exposed few and yellowed teeth.

Moherron smiled as his brother and he, along with several other children from the town, gathered around the old man and sat amongst the fenegrkz haze that drifted about. Onlookers sat at their tables in the Unicorn’s Horn and drank their qualfrt, very bitter ale often served warm, while the Waggler began to tell his famous tales.

Hmm, hummed the man with his pipe resting in the corner of his mouth and pulling back his long, white mane. What story would you all like to hear today? he asked rhetorically. Should I tell of the times when brave knights fought all manner of monster to protect our towns? Would a story of dragons be more to your liking? Does Zoxenfr, the charmer of Ospenhath, delight you? Or, perhaps, should I regale you with the tale of the brothers black who first found magic in this land? To this last suggestion several of the children cheered, and so, his story began.

A good hour had slipped by as the children sat mesmerized by the masterful storytelling of Bartelby Grumpf. When at last his tale had come to an end, Moherron and Merigue heard their father calling their names, and turned to see him standing in the doorway of the pub. It’s time to head home boys, he said, and they followed him outside while saying goodbye to their play pals that were listening to Bartelby’s story.

The boys chatted about their escapades in the town and conversed with their father, who was somewhat quiet along the trip home, though delighted that his boys had enjoyed themselves. The two children retold parts of Bartelby’s tale and played games in the back of the cart, sitting amongst the small parcels of produce that their father had purchased in town. As evening approached, the boys napped lazily in the cart until at last they had reached home where they dined and slept for the night.

The next days became nights and days once again. Soon the joy of their visit into town faded into memory, and the severity of the present overshadowed. While tending to Taragon, Moherron conversed with him and tried to give hope to his eldest sibling whose health seemed to deteriorate with each passing hour. On a crystal clear night, like most recent nights at that time, Moherron sat beside his brother’s bed.

Things will get better, Moherron urged Taragon. Remember just a few weeks ago when we were out on the Blstflagrseg fishing for cratens? Remember how much fun it was out on the water, picking on little Merigue? We will have good times like that again soon. Who else is going to help me pick on our little brother?

You are so optimistic, Taragon replied with a chuckle. Solemnness grew over Taragon’s face and Moherron read the despair in his eyes. Things are getting worse by the day. I feel like I’m closer to dying every minute. The rains are nowhere in sight, and if they don’t come soon, I’m afraid that all of us will face the same fate.

Nonsense! Moherron shouted irritably. How could you say such things? You know things will get better. You will get better. I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to us.

Do you remember our last trip into Hoksknfol, Moherron? Taragon asked softly.

Of course I do. That was a great time, and we’ll see such good times again!

Do you remember when we were playing frozl with those kids outside of Wickerby’s bakery? Remember when that one kid was cheating and he pushed me down when I called him on it?

Yes, I remember. I would have given him a good thrashing if he would have fought fair.

Taragon laughed at his brother’s spirited ignorance. Of course you would have, except that he was twice your size. He was large enough to take on the three of us. But that didn’t stop you, did it? You stood up to him anyhow, even when the rest of us stood back. You were very brave, but so naïve…like now. What did you get for your courage but a lump on the head and a black eye? It is the same way with fate. Fate is an unbeatable bully. If you stand up to fight it, you will fail. Nothing you, nor I, nor anyone can do can change it. Nobody can bring the rain but fate. You are so sure that you can make things better, and you have the will, but there is no way.

Stop it! screamed Moherron. I won’t listen to you talk like this. Fate will not hurt our family. I will see to it. Call me what you will, but I won’t give up. Moherron turned his back on his brother and left the room, crying with anger at his brother’s words and scared that those words were right.

Several hours passed and dinner was prepared. Moherron took his seat at the table, bowing his head, and waited for his father to say grace.

He that has blessed beyond recompense, from our hour of birth and every day since, we thank you for all you have given with grace that now is prepared upon our plates. May we always remember above all that we do, our life and our happiness is all thanks to you. Please see that this food makes our bodies strong, so we may serve you well this whole day long, spoke Vickamel.

The family picked up their heads and began to prepare their plates. The largest of portions went to Taragon, so that he may regain his health, the father next, then the mother, then Moherron, and finally Merigue. Helena, Moherron’s mother, prepared Taragon’s plate with a large breast of dolpher, a spoonful of poached shnertz and a few sprigs of felsng.

Please bring your brother his plate, Moherron, Helena requested.

Yes, Ma, he replied, already standing from his chair anticipating the request. Moherron walked to his brother’s room, pushed the curtain aside from the entrance and walked in.

The family began to eat their food and conversed lightly, pretending to be filled by what little they ate. Vickamel and Helena had just begun a dialogue about the poor production of the dolpher when Moherron returned to the table with tears in his eyes and Taragon’s plate still in his hand. Moherron barely set the plate upon the table when Helena ran to Taragon’s room, sobbing furiously. Vickamel swallowed a bite of shnertz, set his fork on his dish, and folded his hands in prayer. Merigue continued to eat, confused, and began to cry when he saw Moherron’s eyes, finally realizing what had happened.

That night Moherron left the farmhouse after the meager dinner and sat on the stoop behind the house while the others wrapped Taragon’s body in linens, as was the custom amongst the poor, and prepared him for burial. Moherron could see across the field for miles, yet a thick fog of gloom lingered, and a stench of suffering tainted the otherwise fresh air. Gazing at the stars in the cloudless night sky, he prayed for the rain to come. He began to spout nonsense into the wind waiting to stumble upon some magical answer to his family’s plight.

He uttered phrases hoping to invoke the winds to sweep the rain clouds over his land and drench the fields. He spoke prayers for relief of his family’s troubles and chanted for the skies to open up and fill the air with the noise of rainfall. Instead the wind grew still and the night was silent. A weakness filled Moherron’s body and he thought his hunger had begun taking its toll. Moherron began to sob in hopelessness and anger. He thought of all the tales he had heard from Bartelby Grumpf. He wished they had held some truth, and chanted through his tears words of desperation to deliver his family from suffering. It worked, in a sense.

In an instant, dark storm clouds rolled over the field engulfing the light of the stars, extinguishing the moon, and blackening the sky. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed within the monstrous, thick swell of clouds and Moherron shouted for joy anticipating the heavy rain. But no rain came. The crashes of lightning struck all around him and the thunder roared like a lion in the sky, and the winds picked up and howled like a hungry pack of warvls as they increased in velocity. The storm clouds swirled above him and a siphon of immense proportions licked the ground from above, tearing through everything it touched. Moherron cowered in fear and tried furiously to speak some words to stop the torrent of winds from advancing. The funnel consumed and flung carts and animals and fences, ravaging a path straight towards Moherron and his home. Moherron dropped to his knees and covered his face as he saw the tornado approaching him. He felt the wind racing through his hair and the whir of debris circling around him, yet he was not touched, as if protected against his own creation. In a matter of seconds the winds died down and the black sky dissipated, revealing the crystal clear night once again. Moherron opened his eyes and peered between his forearms to see that all was peaceful as before. Standing to his feet, Moherron checked himself over and saw he had not received a tear on his clothes or a scratch on his skin, but looking behind, he saw that his house and family had not fared as well. He began digging through the debris and calling out the names of his family. Mama…Papa, he screamed but was answered only with silence and splinters. Merig… he stuttered in a cracked voice.

The sobs and choking gasps muddled with his pleas for a response. Searching for signs that his fears were unjustified, the boy frantically dug through the wreckage, tossing shards of wood and iron aside, only to have his nightmares confirmed. He stood beside the pile of rubble and cried.

The boy sat upon the ground for hours, balling and wailing in the darkness of night. He prayed for his family and the welfare