An Abundance of Wizards
Linda Maye Adams
Finding things is its own special kind of magic. People put out all types of junk to the curb, labeled with a crude sign, hoping free will get someone to it take away so they don’t have to.
Most of it is junk.
But sometimes there’s a good object we can use. My husband, Alex, and I fix those up and sell them online. Can be pretty profitable.
But not this morning.
We’d passed on three free piles. Old books, stained and stinking of mildew. A child’s toy car, the red-and-yellow plastic faded from the sun. That dresser of fractured wood, covered with stickers of a Star Trek fan.
“We’ll do better at the next place, Jennie,” Alex said.
Disappointed, I yanked open the passenger door to our aging minivan. A cloud of heat enveloped me. I stayed on the curb, scooping my carrot-red hair into a ponytail while I waited for it to dissipate.
“We weren’t even gone for fifteen minutes.” Alex glowered at the pollen-crusted roof. “Look at it!”
It needed washing. After two weeks of rain, the oaks and maples were putting out their all. A crow cackled from the treetops, as if mocking us.
“Says you,” Alex called up to it.
“Humidity’s going to be bad today,” I said. “Do you want to go back?”
His gold wedding band glinted in the pounding sun. “Bills are coming due. We can’t go home empty-handed.”
My shoulders slumped.
We both felt the pressure of the almighty budget. Ever since we inherited my family’s historical Queen Anne house, everything needed fixing. We went through money so fast that I’d resorted to painting river stones to sell as garden decorations.
The cloth seat scraped at my sweaty legs. Guess I shouldn’t have worn shorts and flip-flops.
Paper crackled as Alex passed me a bag. From the smell, the double-chocolate chip cookies I’d made yesterday.
“It’s too early for cookies,” I said.
“It’s never too early for cookies,” he said solemnly. “Besides, I need cookie fortification after all our bad luck.”
Truth be told, so I did I. So I nibbled on one with a bit broken off the end. Damaged cookies didn’t have calories.
“Where do we try next?” Alex uncapped a bottle of water, knocking it down.
“How about we try over on 15th? The houses are being demolished. Might be something there.”
The row of five houses had been bought by a construction company looking to build monster-sized houses without any yards. Same company offered us a lot of money for our house. Didn’t care that it was historical. Just that it was on a big lot they could turn into as many houses as they could jam on it.
The stucco houses might have been generously called bungalows by a real-estate agent. More like shacks. Tiny, empty-eyed windows. Weeds battled for dominance in patchy yards.
My flip-flops slapping at the pavement, I trudged across the street to the first house.
“I’m leaving the window down this time,” Alex said.
He ran after me. I turned, walking backward to admire his legs. He’d dressed in neon rainbow board shorts and a T-shirt that didn’t match. I ignored that, glad I could sightsee.
“All right, but if someone steals the van, it’s your fault.”
“Who’d steal that? It’s fifteen years old. Hardly a getaway car. What are the thieves going to do, turn it into a clown car of robbers?”
I smiled, picturing black-clad robbers wearing masks spilling from a clown car.
As I reached the sidewalk, I said, “I’ve been thinking. Is there another area we should branch out in? Additional cushion when the pickings are slim?”
The problem was that we had to spruce up the free junk. Paint, woodworking supplies, sometimes repairs. I’d used the last of my coral paint on a music stand.
“How about we take photos?” he said. “Put them up on one of those online photo sites.”
“No one wants blurry pictures of my thumb or your crooked ones.”
“My pictures are not crooked. You just have to hold them at an angle.”
We passed the first house, a pale gray that hadn’t aged well. Alex stooped to inspect the lumber dumped at the end of the yard, likely part of an old fence.
The boards clattered as he dropped them, spewing pollen. “Dry rotted.”
A rusted garden rake lay in the next yard. Alex tested the metal tines. Tossed it back.
My nose itched. “Stop doing that. The pollen doesn’t need any help.”
“Sorry. This looks like the junk no one thought worth hauling away.”
“Someone will take it.”
There was always that person who would pick up the broken junk, telling themselves they could fix it. Then it became their junk, a project forever waiting but never finished.
The third house was painted an ugly coffee-stain brown with a flat roof and squinty windows. Stank like someone had peed in the yard. But we hit the gold standard.
Two—two!—steamer trunks!
Not the kind you buy for your winter blankets. These were old, possibly antiques.
Jackpot.
Alex shoved his hands in his pockets. “We aren’t this lucky, Jennie. Why hasn’t anyone else picked these up?”
“Maybe they stopped after the first two houses.”
I ran my hands over the pine and oak wood, finding small dings and other damage from use. The flattop trunks must have been beautiful in their day. They’d need restoration work by someone who knew what they were doing.
More money. Living in a historical house, I knew how that added up.
“Looks like all original hardware,” Alex said. “Still has all the end caps.”
He unlocked the iron latches. Hinges, long unused, squealed. The smell of mothballs joined the pollen.
“Looks like Halloween costumes,” Alex said.
He pulled out a wizard’s hat—a pointed cone in a deep amethyst, stars and moons embroidered in yellow. A matching cloak lay underneath, the material amazingly soft. They looked like costumes from an old movie.
I shook my head. “Too good for cheap costumes. Maybe a theater production?”
“Or vaudeville.” He grinned, his cheeks dimpling. “Let’s get these home and see what else is inside.”
We really should have opened the second one.
Our Queen Anne house was marked by the brilliant purple flowers of a magnolia blooming happily at the end of the football field-sized yard. Okay, the yard wasn’t that big, but it took two hours to mow with a riding mower.
First time I saw the house, when I was ten, I believed it was haunted. It looked like something from Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? You know—tower, gables, old stone. Just needed the lighting flashing over it.
Now I saw the house as a stately gentleman, dressed up to attend a black-tie party. I still couldn’t quite get over that this piece of artwork was mine. My great-great-grandfather had designed it in the 1880s, and in its day, many parties had been held here. I could picture women peeking through lace curtains in the three-story brick tower, waiting for guests to arrive. A husband escorting his wife, dressed in a lavish gown with a bustle, up the five steps to the oak door under timber arches.
Alex pulled the minivan up the serpentine driveway that had once served horses and carriages. Now it was paved with smooth asphalt. Still, I sometimes fancied smelling horses and hay when the day was hot.
We unloaded the two trunks in the backyard. Startled, a brown cottontail bunny hopped into the bushes.
The green grass tickled my ankles. “Grass needs mowing again.”
“Grass always needs mowing,” Alex grumbled. “When we get more money, we could pay a gardener.”
Yeah, it was an old discussion. We’d never had enough money for anything that we hated doing.
Alex had gotten laid off a year ago. The job hadn’t paid well anyway. My boss was so bad I’d left to keep sane.
The saddest part? We made more money selling junk than both our jobs combined, and we were still broke.
Yup.
I opened the first trunk, shaking out the amethyst robe. Baby soft. I wanted to pet the fabric. Instead, I clipped it to the laundry line to air out the mothball odor.
The rest of the trunk was packed tight with five more robes, all in deep, jewel tones, rubies and emeralds.
“Everything’s hand-stitched, hand-embroidered,” I said, hanging all the robes on the line.
Alex shrugged into a peacock-blue robe that almost fit his lanky form but left his ankles exposed.
“What do you think?” He waved a wand made of blond wood.
“What are you planning to zap?”
“How about Mr. Oberman? He’s always spying on us with those big binoculars.”
“Pain in the ass,” I muttered, laying the rest of the wands on an old sheet.
Mr. Oberman called the cops on us regularly. The first time because he was convinced we were burglars. After that, he blamed us for vandalism to his mailbox (kids) and stealing his paper (probably the carrier just didn’t want to deliver the paper).
I turned to the second box, flipped open the latches. They were stiff and needed some oil. The hinges groaned. Preparing for the mothball assault, I pushed open the lid.
Cold washed out from the trunk, a gray fog swirling up.
“Jennie!”
Alex surged at me, robe flapping around his shins. He hooked his huge hands under my armpits and dragged me to the driveway. He was amazingly strong.
And so frightened, he didn’t realize I had bare skin on scratchy grass. One of my flip-flops had come off. I barely had time to get my feet under me when we reached the concrete.
An eerie moan rose from the fog, the chill reaching into my bones.
The fog swirled, then whisked away, disappearing into the sunlight. The old wood of the trunk creaked and groaned.
An ancient man rose from inside the trunk, stretching his long legs. Wrinkles nested in his face. Cloud-white hair touched his shoulders. He wore a simple shirt of silk, buttons running down the front, and wide-legged trousers. Practical boots in a soft, well-used leather. The toes were scuffed. All of it was the same color as the first robe I’d hung on the line: amethyst.
He shook out his shoulders one at a time, then rubbed at a thick white beard.
I stared at him, afraid to move. Alex’s chest heaved against my back. Visions of every horror movie flashed through my mind. Had we unleashed a paranormal serial killer?
“Out of the way! Out of the way!” squawked a second voice.
The white-bearded man stared down his nose at the interior of the trunk. “Patience, Bartley, patience.”
“You try being patient after being imprisoned in this trunk forever!”
With a put-upon sigh, the first man stepped from the trunk. He gazed around our backyard, cocking his head.
“Tobias, help me out of this coffin already!”
“Very well.” Tobias reached down to help a fireplug-shaped man out of the trunk.
Bartley was no more than four feet tall, his hair rumpled. He applied a squinty eye to survey our yard. “There it is!”
With short, quick steps, he cut across to the laundry line. Glared up at the ruby red robe.
“Who put that up there?” he demanded.
“I’ll get it.” Tobias gave us a sympathetic smile. “My apologies, dear lady, gentleman. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Alex jumped to his feet, fists balled at his sides. The peacock-blue robe slipped halfway off his shoulders. “Who are you? How—”
“A moment, please. Bartley won’t calm down until he has his wizard’s robe.” Tobias passed down the red robe to his companion, then pulled on the amethyst one. “That’s better.”
“Says you.” Bartley seemed to be the bad-tempered sort. He marched back to the steamer trunk to retrieve the crooked wand.
Tobias leaned over the open trunk. “It’s safe to come out. We’re … somewhere.” His pale eyes met mine. “Where are we? Where is your other shoe?”
Oh, right. My legs jangling with tension, I bounced to the errant flip-flop. Alex squawked in protest.
I ignored him. He was supposed to be the brave one. “Who are you?” I asked as I slipped on the flip-flop. Better. Even the grass was too warm for bare feet.
“We’re wizards, of course,” Tobias answered.
“Wizards?” Alex blinked and joined me. “You mean, like magic, love spells, and all that?”
Tobias helped a woman with stone-gray hair step out of the trunk. Her Victorian-style dress was peacock-blue. Alex hastily shed the robe he was wearing and held it out to her.
“Oh, no,” Tobias said with all seriousness. “We don’t cast love spells. Possible, of course, but immoral.”
“There are some things no one should interfere with,” the peacock-blue wizard said, taking the robe from Alex.
Three more wizards, one man and two women, climbed out of the steamer trunk. The very air seemed to shift. My stomach took a hard lurch, nausea swelling up. Alex gripped my hand tightly.
Then: Snap!
The sensation was gone, and the trunk looked normal again. But now we had six wizards in our backyard. What were we supposed to do with them?
Not sure what else to do, I invited the six wizards onto the screened service porch on the back end of the house for lemonade and cookies. There wasn’t quite enough seating for so many people, so Alex moved the painted river stones I’d left drying on the two-foot-wide sill framing the screens.
I left Tobias and the Green Wizard inspecting the river stones. I hoped they didn’t comment on my painting job.
“What are these for?” Tobias asked.
“We sell them to pretty up people’s gardens,” I said.
Yellow Wizard tried to follow Alex and me into the kitchen. I shooed her out. She bowed three times, nervously, then retreated through the back screen door, not saying a word.
“This is too weird,” Alex said as he dumped double-chocolate chip cookies on a bamboo tray.
“You think you could arrange the cookies so they look nice?” I asked, feeling waspish.
“Why? They’re going to get eaten.” But he sighed and lined them up.
Ice clinked as I dumped a scoop into the pitcher. Did a quick headcount of the glasses. “We can’t even explain them. And they all stand out. What’s Oberman going to do when he sees them?”
“Call the cops.”
We both laughed, too hard, at the absurdity of the whole thing. I pictured myself trying to explain the colorful wizards. Pity it was spring and not almost Halloween.
I wiped tears from my eyes, then hefted the tray with the lemonade pitcher and glasses. “One thing at a time.”
Alex picked up the cookies. “Onward!”
The wizards pounced on the cookies.
“It’s like we threw food to piranhas,” Alex said.
“Maybe they haven’t eaten in a long time,” I said.
“Manners, please, manners,” Tobias called over the crunching and munching. “We apologize, my lady. We haven’t tasted anything so delectable before. Even the king’s cook could not create anything like this.”
“It’s the chocolate,” Alex said.
I handed Tobias one of the cookies I’d held back, kept the other for myself. There were priorities, and chocolate was always a priority.
We sat on the wicker sofa, squeezing in beside Green Wizard. He eyed my cookie.
Alex smacked his hand. “She can make more.”
“How did you get into the trunk?” I asked around big bites of my cookie.
“The palace was attacked,” Tobias said. “The black wizard cast a spell that imprisoned us in the trunk. He said only a woman with fire hair would free us.”
I touched my hair. No wonder he thought I was the one he was looking for.
“You don’t have anyone with red hair in your world?” Alex asked.
“No.” Bartley drained his tumbler of lemonade. “Brown and black, some straw.”
Straw? It took me a minute to translate that into blond.
“You must be the fated one,” Tobias insisted, looking at me.
“Can you go back to your world?” I asked.
Tobias shook his head. The other wizards glanced away, shifting uncomfortably. Green Wizard plucked at a thread on his robe.
“You don’t want to go home?” Alex asked.
“Even if it were possible, I fear we would be killed,” Tobias said. “Please, my lady, you would honor us by letting us stay here.”
Here? In the house? With us?
I blinked, exhaled. The house was big enough, certainly, with six bedrooms. But why was I even considering it? They’d just shown up on our doorstep.
But where else would they go?
Alex’s warm hand closed over mine. I squeezed it, swallowing. Hated the heat in my eyes.
He leaned in close. “What would we do with six wizards?”
“Beats me. We can’t afford to feed everyone.”
Tobias frowned. “Afford?”
“Money, uh, coin,” Alex said.
Tobias’s blue eyes brightened. He picked up one of the river stones I’d painted as a lavender ladybug. “We can enchant these. You can sell them. Right, Bartley?”
The red wizard gave the rock the squinty eye. “Yes. A charm to make the garden grow.”
“Could we sell that?” Alex asked.
My mind worked through the possibilities. I’d heard of people putting their souls up for sale—and someone else buying it. Why not enchanted rocks? “We’d have to put a disclaimer on it, you know, ‘Just for entertainment.’”
It might be possible to set up a table at the farmers’ market and sell them there. It was scary how fast we agreed to keep the wizards. But what would we do about Oberman?
Two weeks later, and we aren’t hunting for free junk anymore. It only took one enchanted rock sold at the farmers’ market and a raving comment from a gardener about our ladybug rocks making his azaleas shoot up, and suddenly I couldn’t paint them fast enough.
Of course, we were adding to the pollen, but still …
It was surprisingly easy to get used to wizards walking through the house, their robes sweeping the hardwood floors, bright against the oak paneling. Somehow, I could see them fitting in at those past parties my great-great-grandfather hosted.
Mr. Oberman was beside himself. He called the cops on us again to complain about the “strange people.” I told the officers we had tenants to help pay the bills.
After that, though, Bartley cast a spell over the front of the house to hide the wizards. He’ll need to renew it about once a week and after it rains. I’ve also been trying to convince the wizards to dress in modern-day clothing.
Yeah, a work in progress.
Alex and I sat out on the service porch and watched as Green Wizard chased the cottontail. As I leaned into the curve of Alex’s body, I realized how glad I was to not have to hunt for junk anymore.
Free junk felt like desperation. Wizards walking through my house felt like home.
Linda Maye Adams is the author of “Alien Pizza,” published in Kevin J. Anderson’s anthology Monsters, Movies, & Mayhem. Publishers Weekly reviewed her story as “especially delightful.” She is a two-time silver Honorable Mention winner in the prestigious Writers of the Future contest and also has received five honorable mentions. Her novel Crying Planet was selected for the Military Science Fiction Storybundle. She is currently writing two series, GALCOM Universe and Dice Ford, Superhero.