Tower Left Alone

    Morning settled over Whorltop Tower beneath a pale blue sky, and sunlight entered through the narrow windows one room at a time. It touched shelves crowded with spellbooks, glass bottles filled with uncertain liquids, bundles of drying herbs, and several objects Archwizard Thistledown had promised to identify years ago.

    The Tower stood on a low green hill beyond the village road. Its round stone walls were covered in moss, its roof leaned toward the eastern garden, and its chimney released small clouds of purple smoke whenever the kitchen fire became excited. An old oak grew beside the garden wall, with thick branches reaching toward the upper windows.

    Inside the Tower, Thistledown was packing.

    This should have been a simple task. He needed three robes, one formal hat, two spellbooks, clean stockings, and his invitation to the Grand Wizard’s Convention.

    Instead, he had packed seven hats, no stockings, a wooden duck, and a jar labeled Emergency Turnips.

    Thistledown stood over his open traveling trunk and scratched his gray beard.

    “I know I placed the invitation somewhere responsible.”

    A drawer opened across the room.

    Thistledown looked at it.

    “Not there.”

    The drawer slammed shut.

    A cupboard door opened.

    “No.”

    The cupboard closed.

    One of the floorboards lifted beneath the rug.

    Thistledown frowned.

    “Whorltop, I am not crawling under the floor.”

    The Tower groaned through its walls.

    “I understand that I placed it there,” said Thistledown. “That does not make it responsible.”

    A folded parchment slid from beneath the rug and stopped against his boot.

    “Thank you.”

    The floor gave a short creak.

    “You are being difficult this morning.”

    The shutters rattled.

    “You are always difficult when I travel.”

    From the upper rafters, Whitethorn watched the exchange with large dark eyes. The barn owl had lived in the Tower longer than most of the furniture. She knew every window, every beam, and every cupboard where Thistledown hid biscuits from himself.

    “You could remain here,” she said.

    Thistledown looked up.

    “And miss the convention?”

    “You complain about it every year.”

    “I complain because I care.”

    “You complained for three hours after the last one.”

    “They served cold tea.”

    “You overturned a table.”

    “It was an educational protest.”

    Whitethorn lowered her head and began cleaning one wing.

    Thistledown folded the invitation and placed it carefully inside his robe.

    “There. Safe.”

    The Tower opened the front door.

    A gust of wind swept through the room. The invitation flew from his robe, circled the ceiling, and landed inside the cold fireplace.

    Whitethorn watched it fall.

    “Safe,” she repeated.

    Thistledown retrieved the parchment, brushed away the soot, and placed it in the inner pocket of his traveling cloak.

    On the rug beside the hearth, Rumple opened one golden eye.

    Rumple was a broad orange cat with thick fur, torn ears, and a permanent expression of disappointment. He occupied the warmest rug in the Tower and treated every other resident as an unnecessary interruption.

    Thistledown crouched beside him.

    “I shall be gone for only four days.”

    Rumple closed his eye.

    “I expect you to help Whitethorn watch the Tower.”

    Rumple remained still.

    “Perhaps chase away intruders.”

    The cat’s tail moved once.

    “You chased that ghoul away last winter.”

    Rumple opened his eye again.

    “He sat on my rug.”

    “Yes, but the result was still useful.”

    Rumple stood, turned around twice, and lay back down with his face pointed toward the fire.

    Whitethorn clicked her beak.

    “A reliable guardian.”

    “He has hidden qualities,” said Thistledown.

    Rumple spoke without opening his eyes.

    “Hidden for a reason.”

    A small crash came from the pantry.

    Thistledown straightened.

    “Chancellor Scrumbles?”

    There was a hurried whisper beneath the floor, followed by the sound of many tiny feet.

    A large gray rat emerged from behind a flour sack. He wore a brass ring around his head and carried a spoon at his side.

    “No trouble here, Wizardship.”

    “What broke?”

    “Nothing important.”

    Another crash followed.

    Scrumbles looked over his shoulder.

    “Nothing important twice.”

    Thistledown crossed the room and opened the pantry door.

    Several rats stood around a fallen jar of pickled onions. One wore a cork as a helmet. Another held a piece of string between its teeth. A third had climbed inside the jar and appeared pleased with the arrangement.

    “I asked you to leave the supplies alone while I packed.”

    “We were conducting an inventory,” Scrumbles explained.

    “You were opening the pickles.”

    “A thorough inventory.”

    “You will keep the midden under control while I am away.”

    Scrumbles placed one paw over his heart.

    “You have my solemn promise.”

    A rat behind him rolled a wheel of cheese into a tunnel.

    Thistledown pointed toward it.

    Scrumbles turned.

    “Put that back, Gerald.”

    The rat stopped.

    “Most of it.”

    The cheese continued into the tunnel.

    A sharp scratching came from the window.

    Parsnip the squirrel entered headfirst, caught his rear feet on the sill, and landed inside a basket of yarn. He rolled across the floor, stood at once, and raised a sharpened twig.

    “I heard talk of guarding the Tower.”

    Whitethorn looked down at him.

    “You were listening through the window.”

    “I was patrolling the exterior.”

    “You were stealing sunflower seeds.”

    “I discovered them during patrol.”

    Parsnip pulled a red thread around his shoulders and arranged it as a cape.

    “I volunteer to command the garden defenses.”

    “There are no garden defenses,” said Rumple.

    “There will be.”

    “There are no enemies.”

    “There could be.”

    “There could also be rain,” Rumple replied. “Will you challenge the clouds?”

    Parsnip considered this.

    “If they approach without permission.”

    Thistledown laughed and lifted his traveling trunk. The trunk snapped at his sleeve.

    “Enough of that.”

    The trunk released him.

    Thistledown carried it toward the front door. Outside, his goat cart waited beside the garden path. Merlyn, the white goat who pulled it, wore a black harness and a single polished monocle. He chewed a sprig of lavender while watching Thistledown with little patience.

    The wizard stopped on the threshold and looked back.

    Whitethorn remained in the rafters.

    Scrumbles stood beside the pantry door.

    Parsnip had climbed onto the table and was studying the garden through an empty bottle.

    Rumple remained on the rug.

    Thistledown rested one hand against the Tower’s stone wall.

    “I will return before the end of the week.”

    The Tower creaked.

    “The wards are strong.”

    Another creak.

    “No one knows I am leaving.”

    Whitethorn turned her head toward the nearest window.

    “Half the village watched you pack the cart.”

    “They do not count.”

    “They watched you hang a sign on the gate.”

    Thistledown glanced outside.

    A wooden sign hung from the iron gate.

    GONE TO WIZARD'S CONVENTION. BACK FRIDAY. PLEASE DO NOT STEAL ANYTHING.

    He cleared his throat.

    “That may have been unnecessary.”

    The Tower slammed a shutter.

    “I will take it down.”

    Thistledown removed the sign, placed it beneath his arm, and climbed into the cart.

    “Look after each other.”

    “We always do,” said Whitethorn.

    “Keep the pantry secure.”

    Scrumbles saluted.

    “Try not to fight anything larger than yourself.”

    Parsnip lowered the bottle.

    “That restriction seems unfair.”

    Thistledown looked at Rumple.

    “And you.”

    Rumple opened one eye.

    “Do something useful.”

    “No.”

    Merlyn pulled the cart down the garden path.

    Thistledown waved until the road carried him beyond the hill. The sound of the wheels faded. The Tower’s front gate swung shut. Its lock clicked into place.

    For several moments, no one spoke.

    Then Parsnip raised his twig.

    “I am now commander of the garden.”

    “No,” said Whitethorn.

    Scrumbles returned to the pantry.

    Rumple stretched across the rug.

    The Tower settled around them. The walls cooled. The front door remained locked. Sunlight moved slowly across the floor.

    Beyond the garden, inside the line of dark trees, three goblins watched the wizard’s cart disappear.

    The smallest goblin lowered a cracked spyglass.

    “He’s gone.”

    A second goblin scratched the warts on his chin.

    “How long?”

    “Four days.”

    The third goblin looked toward the Tower. Its windows reflected the afternoon sun, and the iron gate stood closed beneath the old oak.

    He smiled and revealed a row of broken teeth.

    “Then tonight we find out what he left behind.”