Thaumaturgy

This is the third short story leading to the Amafeareile book.

            Under the sacred oak in the middle of the augural meadow, Veridian Morncore shook the dust bunnies off his fluffy tail.

“Aah…”

It caused his nose to twitch, and he sneezed violently, causing him to drop a raw chicken egg. It cracked against the egg-shaped floor tiles, leaking its gooey innards.

No bother. He placed his paw over the mess and concentrated. The magic in his limb crackled while the egg repaired itself.

He bowed his head. “May the glorious thaumaturgy in this symbol bring life.”

He stretched his legs and bolted around his room, racing past photos of ancestors, jumping over his carrot-shaped bed, and stopping at the old egg-shaped oak door. The giddiness swelled up in him. He clutched the carrot-shaped brass door handle and pulled ever so gently, savoring the noise of the groaning wood. He squinted through the sunlight at the field before him.

            “Almost time.”

 He imagined the humans breaking the fresh fertile eggs onto their harvest equipment, infusing the great magic he had instilled in each one. I must not fail them, or their crops won’t grow.

Morncore went to the kitchen, grabbed his creaky dried out wicker basket with one furry paw, and admired the worn green felt lining. He remembered when his father, full of smiles and honor, handed it to him. It had been lustrous then. His eyes prickled with tears at the memory.  

He filled it with eggs.

            Here. We. Go.

            A day’s work ahead, Veridian dashed out of his den, and away from the lone tree above it, fur standing on end in anticipation, depositing eggs around the nearby field. As the day wore on and the sun beat down, a terrible stench arose from the first eggs he had placed. Sweat trickled down his ears and matted his gray fur. A quick twitch shook it off.

            Disgusting. No, no. This won’t do. Fertility does not smell like this. How will the humans sow their fields with rotten eggs on their plows, putting tainted magic into their foodstuffs?

            His head hung and his furry arms went limp. He quickly gathered up all the eggs and buried them. As the sun set, he returned to his home to sleep.

***

            Morncore stretched his legs, working out the soreness from the prior day. He sprinted around his room, avoiding old carrot shaped toys and sculptures, not in the mood to jump over them.

            Maybe it was just a bad day. Let’s try this again.

            He picked up the brown basket and filled it to the brim with eggs. He ventured out into the early morning sun and got to work, placing each one delicately around the ceremonial field. As the day wore on, the sweat beat down faster than before. He could hardly stop moving lest he burn his feet on the ground.

            Soon after, he heard chirping.

This won’t do at all. Some eggs had hatched, leaving chicks throughout the field. You can’t smear chicks on farm equipment. He felt sick to his stomach at the thought.

            At the end of a long day retrieving chicks, he went back to his den.

            It seems like every day keeps getting hotter and hotter. It has never been so hot in the Spring. If I can’t pull this harvest ceremony off, the humans will indeed be in dire straits.

***

            In the morning, he went to his cupboard. He frowned at the dull white eggs in his refrigerator.

Much too hot for cold things. What to do? What to do? The celebration of life must go on or the harvest will fail, and the humans will suffer.

Veridian grabbed an egg and concentrated, feeling the properties of it. His paw sparked as the substance transformed into an oval butter cracker.

I know my father said it must be an egg, but perhaps only the shape matters.

He set to work, spreading them across a grassy knoll. Dark clouds rolled in, and rain splashed down, melting the crackers. Sadness colored his being a dull teal.

Nothing bread based. I’ll sleep on it.

***

Veridian greeted the morning with exasperation.

I need something round, but not cold. Hard, but not old. And non-toxic.

He vellicated his nose and followed it to an old cookie jar. Veridian picked up the jar and thought about cookies melting in the rain. He coughed, and dust kicked up from the jar, causing him to sneeze. The force of the sneeze caused the container to fly out of his hands and crash to the ground. Chocolate lay strewn about.

I don’t remember having this.

He sniffed the substance. It smelled faintly of toasted nuts. He nibbled a piece. It tasted tangy.

Hmm, yes. Just the right amount of butyric acid and paraffin wax to keep from melting.

Veridian rolled it around on his pads, analyzing the makeup. He popped an egg out of the fridge, twirling it around in his paw. His long ears wiggled as he concentrated on restructuring the ovum on the molecular level. Every part became a chocolaty wax. Morncore filled his basket with haste and dashed out the door.

By the end of the long day, each waxy chocolate egg held firm, infused with the magic of life that he gave it. Veridian wiped the sweat off his brow and lit the ceremonial torch, signaling the beginning of the ritual.

***

As the sun rose, he heard laughter and playing outside his home. The humans had come from all over the valley to celebrate new life, spread this new chocolate wax on their farming equipment and start the growing season. He could only hope the warming days didn’t reverse the magic.