In a dimly lit chamber of flasks and curious magical relics, a rather flustered wizard was attempting to haggle with the postman.
‘Twenty five crowns! You think I’m an alchemist!?’ stammered the wizard, standing from his chair and only just managing to restrain himself from jumping over the desk and throttling his visitor. ‘What person in this kingdom could afford that dash of highway robbery?’ The whirring of a nearby orrery clicked loudly over the general broiling atmosphere that this small workshop had now undertaken.
‘Most of them sir, even the beggars,’ the postman replied stoutly–the cost of posting a letter had been at the same amount for over one hundred and fifty years, and with the current economy of wolves attacking townsfolk in their own homes, it was considered particularly affordable. ‘If you don’t want to pay for the stamp I can’t deliver the letter for you; I can give you some directions though if you would like?’
Glaring at the road-beaten face of the postman and seeing it immune to idle threat, Martin, the beleaguered, relented to looking into his magically secured coin purse. Martin was a miserly man who had given as much charity in his lifetime as he had found joy in the opinions of others. Why should he care about people? They were stupid, smelly creatures who never seemed to appreciate the simple act of quiet reflection*. On top of that barely anyone at the last council/book club meeting had read his epic gimorie about a misunderstood wizard forced into a life of solving crime. Scrabbling a handful of exactly forty eight half crowns, he counted them three times and dropped the small coins into the postman’s outstretched hand.
‘Thank you sir,’ complimented the postman, hoping to leave the conversation as soon as possible, all the while knowing that he had been shortchanged. ‘Now, to whom shall this letter be delivered?’
Pausing to add an unnecessary amount of drama to something that was very clearly not a quest, Martin slowly sat down and then leant back in his chair. ‘You are to take this letter to Delumar the Elder, wizard arcane and master of the Sunken Cathedral, he is not to be trusted by any circumstances, and it is of the utmost importance that you deliver this without delay for what lies within this letter, my gentle friend, is the culmination of dozens of months laden with coiling plots and ensorcelled by devious trickery-’
The postman at this point had stopped listening but kept nodding as the wizard looked likely to start throwing things if interrupted.
‘-my opponent is a canny one and our battle ground is wizard’s chess; for each move that I make, every attacking screen, every canny bluff, Delumar manages to parry me with a wall of impenetrable stone! Absolute defence, always draining at my patience and my resources, but I shall be victorious. Within this letter is the cou-de-ta, the final strike that shall leave my foe decimated and his king resoundingly smoten!’
Considering the word smoten for a moment, the postman politely clicked his bootheels and produced a receipt of postage along with a small scrying number to track the delivery. Bidding goodbye to the strange wizard with madness in his eyes, Leyland, the postman, began to regret not asking if the letter was fragile in any way. Stopping his stride, he quickly decided to place whatever he was delivering within the front page of his postman’s reference guide** and then wrapped them both in a blanket. After all you could never trust a wizard.
—
Watching the postman through the window, Martin began to pace along his favourite brooding rut, worn into the floorboards of his workshop. He had been pacing a fair amount recently and had noticed that his calves had become considerably more muscular along with his blood pressure becoming all the more compressed. He had to win the game, he will win this game! In fact, his opponent might find that Martin’s next move may have…explosive repercussions.
Ha ha ha, HA HA HA HA
—
Choosing to ignore the ominous evil cackling that was wafting from Martin’s open window, Leyland internally decided to leave this delivery unattended when he reached the Sunken Cathedral, letters didn’t often tick like this one did.
*Martin’s choosing to buy a flat adjacent to the city’s most frequented concert hall was a curious act of artistic delusion.
**Known colloquially as a street directory.
J.McCray
2021
Sunday Short Stories 