Chapter One.
In which the history of the Kingdom of Vanillia
is not explained.
Long ago, in a world without gridlock and filled with cheap magic tricks and a bit of true wonder, there was a wizard named Brumpton. He had a demon servant named Mortlock.
The story I'm about to tell started in the kingdom of Vanillia.
The wizard Brumpton had found a powerful wand, named The Wand of Odemer. All that was known about it was that the possessor of the Wand of Odemer could command the elements, even the very heavens. Which, you'll have to agree, is pretty cool beans. After a long and labor-filled hunt Brumpton had snatched the wand out of the very hands of the evil warlock Black Eustace before that wicked one could wield its awesome power. Brumpton and Mortlock then flew like blazes back to their decrepit castle to bolt the door, shutter the windows, and do a triumphant little jig.
Very undignified for a wizard like Brumpton, you understand -- and as for Mortlock, he was such a lazy demon that his capering quite wore him out in a few seconds. So he sat down on a handy tuffet, puffing and blowing like a narwahl.
It didn't take long for Brumpton to regain both his composure and his dignity. He stopped capering, straightened up, then bestowed an austere glance at Mortlock before commanding him to take the Wand of Odemer to the Vault -- there to lock it away while the great minds of the Kingdom of Vanillia pondered what to do with it.
The vault was a long way down a steep set of dank and mold-ridden stone steps, and had Mortlock not just finished a marathon barely ahead of an insanely enraged warlock, he would have worked up the courage and the energy to dispute the command -- pointing out that the Vault would probably provide the Wand of Odemer with a patina of loathsome fungus or possibly cause it to canker away completely.
But since all he wanted to do was crawl into his coal scuttle and sleep for a dozen hours, he took the wand and sullenly began the descent.
"A fine thing" he muttered, his forked tongue darting in and out like the needle of a sewing machine. "A fine thing; we escape by the hair of our chinny chin chins from that nasty Black Eustace and all his nibs can think about is to send me down down down these slippery steps to my probable doom from a broken neck when I slip."
Mortlock continued down, his pace gradually slowing until he had stopped altogether.
"I shan't do it" he said resolutely to a piece of loose grout that looked like the head of a horse. "I shan't! I'll just pop the crummy old wand right here into this crack for safekeeping and scuttle off to my coal scuttle scuttle scuttle." After jamming the wand into the crack in the wall, incidentally bending it almost in half, Mortlock scuttled -- I mean scurried -- back up stairs and was softly blowing cumulus clouds of steam from his horny nostrils before you could say 'plot twist.'
Meanwhile his master had scribbled a quick note to the King and Queen of Vanillia, then entrusted it to one of a dozen shooting stars he kept handy for just such occasions. The shooting star whizzed off like a . . . uh, like a shooting star, I guess, and only then did Brumpton relax. Taking off his peaked hat, he kicked off his boots so he could wiggle his toes in silent satisfaction in front of the blazing fireplace. Brumpton, being a wizard, did not allow anyone at any time to read his thoughts. Not even me, the author of this fantasy. So I can't tell you exactly what he was thinking. But I CAN tell you that he eventually got up, spoke the magic words to extinguish the fireplace, and proceeded to go stand on his head in the corner of the room. That is how wizards like to sleep. If you don't believe me go check the top of a wizard's head sometime and just see how flat it is -- like a football field.
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When the shooting star reached King Tubal and Queen Wanamaker they were just getting ready to retire to the royal bedchamber. But shooting stars have to be fed moonbeams and given a number of gold stickers for their scrapbook after a long trip whizzing across the countryside. So the King and Queen attended to that first before reading the glad tidings together in bed.
"Marvelous!" exclaimed King Tubal.
"Hand me my moleskin eyepatch, dear" the Queen concurred.
"Tomorrow we shall hold a Grand Council to determine the fate of this powerful magic wand!" continued the king, in a ringing voice that unfortunately woke up the Infant Heir, who began bawling and clanging like a fire wagon.
They finally got the babe quieted, then blew out the candles to get themselves a good night's snooze.
Which is something I recommend we all do right about now . . .
