Unsigned Books

A Modern-Day Fairy Tale 

(If you have clicked on a link that read ‘do not click here’, this story is not the story you wanted, but exactly what you need.) Magic has always had something magical. Stories abound of magical places, creatures, people and items. The only thing left in the modern world that poorly mimics the ancient art of true magic is handful of incredibly good magicians that wield no magic whatsoever. They can make your money disappear and reappear in their own pockets. To a certain extend they are like governments and televangelists. A short list of long lost truly magical items still exists and can be found in an inconspicuous stall in Covent Garden in London. The Asian guy treats the shoppers there to all kinds of silly, everyday magical tricks. No one knows the list is right there on the table in plain sight. Nobody cares. The handful of real magical items that are still in existence and can be found on that small piece of paper, are hidden in various places in the world. One of these things is a magical whistle. Also on display in that very same stall. Here is a little bit of history behind it. 

It was the year 1843 AD and the industrial revolution had changed the ways of the world drastically. The people of one village in the middle of England, a country well-known for its magic, tried to keep out anything that reeked of industrialisation. They held on to their traditions and culture the best they could. Two of these villagers were Braedon and Agnes. Two young lovers in the prime of their lives wandering through the nearby forest looking for a place to make out. They sat down under a big old oak tree not realising at first that a magical item was buried here many centuries ago. Naturally, it had been buried for a good reason. They also did not know that reason.  

When they sat down Braedon felt a tingling sense in his bottom. He ignored it as long as he could, but the tingling became stronger and stronger. “What is wrong?” asked Agnes? “Do you not like my kisses?” Braedon turned red and said it was not the kisses that were bothering him. He stood up from where he was sitting and put his hand to the ground. Then he took hers in his and let her feel what he felt. “D’ya feel that, luv?” She sure did and was as mystified as he was. “Must be summink in the ground ‘ere. Let’s dig it up and see what it is,” Braedon suggested.  

Their grubby, little hands dug deep into the soft soil. A small wooden case the size of a tinderbox was buried right underneath the tree. They lifted it up and inspected every inch of it. It had some weird signs on it that they did not understand. They seemed to be old Gaelic words. “Let’s take it to the village elder and see what he makes of it.” Agnes said wisely.  

Showing Aethel the tinderbox raised a frown or two. She had no trouble reading the inscription and softly spoke the words “Please, do not blow this whistle.” With her long, unkempt nails she opened the lid. Inside, the box was lined with the softest fabric man had ever seen and right in the middle of it they saw the whistle that should not be blown.  

The heavy, metallic object was dented and looked like a worn-out piece of junk. “Well, that’s a worthless piece of junk then, innit,” Braedon said. He was slapped in the face by the village elder. “Do not be so disrespectful, young man.” “Is it magical, do you think?” Asked Agnes. The village elder nodded. “Whence did it come, guvnor?” Braedon wondered. “This I do not know. But the man in the mountains will surely be able to tell you more about it. For he is wise and one of the few people left on this ball of dirt who stills knows of the magic once commonly practised in these lands. Go forth, young ones, and show him what you have found.” 

Braedon and Agnes, longing for answers, packed their bags, said goodbye to their parents and set out to find the wise man in the mountains. They were more like hills, really. They travelled up north, for that is where the elder told them to go. For seven and a half days and six nights, they travelled and then they had finally reached the cave in the hills where they were told to go. Outside, a sign read ‘An ounce of wisdom beats a pound of stupidity’. 

“This must be where he lives,” Agnes said, “for these words sound wise and intelligent. Do you not agree?” Braedon, who had grown a little wiser over the years as well, knew not to argue with a woman. So, he agreed and let Agnes do the talking. She would do so anyway. With a shrill voice she yelled into the cave, “Wise man, we have travelled many miles in search of your aid. Won’t you please come out?” 

Upon hearing the woman’s voice, he stepped outside and asked her politely to keep her voice down as to not wake the bear. He was hibernating and he would be awfully moody when disturbed. She immediately covered her mouth and mumbled her apologies. Braedon was looking the man up and down. All he was wearing was a loincloth and his wild beard covered most of the rest of his naked and shrivelled body. He looked much like a seedless sultana in a wig. So, this is what wisdom looks like he thought, well, then I’d rather stay stupid, I guess.  

“Have you come to ask me about the air-speed velocity of the unladen swallow?” 

“No, good man, we have not. We have brought this Tinderbox that holds a magic whistle. We were wondering if you could tell us more about it.” 

Braedon showed him the metal Tinderbox and he grabbed it from his hands with the stealth of an eagle. “This is terrific. Pray, where did you find this?” 

“It was buried underneath a grand oak tree near our village. Do you know it?” 

“I have heard many stories about this wonderful whistle but wrote them off as myths.” He opened the box and stared at its contents with eyes the size of saucers. “I see it has been used often. Look at all those dents. See the teeth marks here. The corrosion over there. You can feel the magic flowing through you just by looking at it. Pray, have you used it?” 

“We most certainly have not. Have you read the inscription on the outside of the box?” 

“Yes, it said ‘Please, do not blow the whistle’. Poppycock!” He took a deep breath and blew into the whistle as hard as he could. Not a sound. Then, out of nowhere, an imp appeared. He was red and looked incredibly annoyed. He was floating in front of the wise man and asked gruffly, “Are you the one who blew the whistle?” The wise man answered affirmatively. The imp slapped him across the face three times and said, “Can you not read! Please, do not blow the whistle!” And disappeared in a puff of smoke.  

“What does this tell us, wise man?” 

“This tells us that mankind always has and probably always will ignore all warning signs. Now be off with you.” He went back into his cave and was never seen again.  

Visual writing prompt by visual writing prompts.