Grassy Disaster

By Cassandra Hamm

The grass was up to Abigail’s chin now. If she didn’t find Ryn soon, it would consume the entire kingdom.

Abigail pushed her way through the verdant blades consuming her village. Couldn’t the boy have chosen a different enchantment? Something to do with rocks, perhaps? She could deal with pesky boulders. Or if he had created an overabundance of food. That would be a fortuitous accident.

But no. He had to choose grass.

Her nose itched something fierce, and she fought the urge to sneeze. She didn’t have time to worry about blasted allergies—not when Ryn was draining himself of the magic that held him together.

A pale green aura, like dying moss in cloud form, writhed around the grass blades with movements independent of the wind. Abigail peered at the flowing magic trails, following them to their source.

Ah. Just over that hill.

She hiked up her skirts and trotted through the sod sea, cursing nature and greenery with every step. There could be snakes in here, and she’d never know. Bloody undergrowth. Sweat streaked the back of her neck, and her eyes started to water. But none of that compared with the infernal tickle in the back of her nose.

With a huff, she pulled out her handkerchief and blew, relieving some of the pressure. Now, if she could make it to Ryn before he accidentally killed himself…

She parted the blades in front of her to reveal a boy, hunched on the ground. Chartreuse energy swirled weakly around him.

Ryn had shown up at the village not two weeks before, half-starved and alone. Though she’d seen the magic in him then, he’d refused her offer of apprenticeship. Foolish child. Didn’t he know that unchecked magic could kill?

“Ryn,” Abigail said.

He looked up. His pine-dark eyes—an enchanter’s eyes—were swollen with tears. The moisture left trails down his sunken brown cheeks. “I—I’m sorry!” His lip quivered. “I can’t stop it!”

“Of course you can.”

She would have knelt next to the poor boy, but immersing herself further in grass was a terrible idea. None of the enchantments she’d tried had cured the dratted allergies. She could mend broken bones and regrow severed limbs, but apparently the world just wanted her to have an aversion to plants.

The burning in her nose swelled. She plugged it to stop the building sneeze.  “You shouldn’t fool around with magic, especially without proper training,” she said, her voice pinched.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Lady Enchantress,” Ryn mumbled. Snot dripped down his lips.

Her face would soon mirror his if she didn’t get away from this grass. Sadly, escape wasn’t an option. “I’ll forgive you once this”—Abigail gestured vaguely to their surroundings—“is taken care of. Now, you need to stop the flow of magic.”

He shivered despite the heat of summer. The energy around him faded every moment, each mossy spark pouring into the new-founded prairie. “I don’t know how.”

The grass crept toward her lips. She bit back both a sneeze and a swear. Neither would help Ryn’s frazzled concentration. “You started this enchantment, Ryn. You can stop it.”

“I can’t!” he wailed.

“You can.” She reached for him.

He pulled back, the energy flaring around him. She blinked away residual flashes of emerald light. Powerful child indeed.

Her own magic was not nearly as pretty, being more of a bile color. Fortunate boy. That is, if he lived to use his magic another day.

He will, she promised herself. And he will be my apprentice.

A blade of grass tickled her nose. The sneeze she’d been holding back burst forth in a mass of snot and energy. Magic rushed from her pores, colliding with his in a tangle of sage- and bile-colored sparks. He shrieked. Then the magic receded back into his body, giving his brown skin a faint glow.

Snot covered her lips, but she didn’t move to wipe it away. She just gaped at Ryn. His face was spattered with snot, his aura replenished.

He rubbed at his wet face. “I—I think you scared the magic right out of me,” he said with a hiccup.

“Did I now?” Shaking her head to clear it, she grabbed her handkerchief and rubbed her mouth, cringing at the gooey residue. “I think a better phrasing would be that I scared the magic right back into you.” She pointed at his glowing form.

His pine-needle eyes widened. “You can see the magic?”

“I see the magic in everything.” Abigail offered him a small smile. “And you, my boy, have an abundance.” She glanced at the no-longer-glowing grass hovering beneath her damp nose. “Well, less than you did twenty minutes ago, but it will be replenished soon enough.”

Ryn flushed.

She held out a hand. He took it and let her pull him to his feet. Though he barely came up to her waist, power pulsed around him, thick and vibrant, an untapped forest of potential. She smiled.

The tickle in the back of her nose reminded her that the grass was still uncomfortably, unfortunately high. She let the bile-green magic flow from her like a scythe, slicing through the grass with a light snick snick. Future hay thumped against the ground.

“Now, if you’ll gather that up,” she said, “I think the horses will be wanting their meal.”

He grimaced. “Do I have to?”

She brushed the grassy residue from her bodice. “Unless you’d rather be an enchantress’ apprentice.”

Grumbling, he began gathering up bundles of discarded greenery. Bits of grass escaped his arms. One blew too close to her, and the itch returned in all its fury.

Ryn dropped his load. “Lady Enchantress?”

“Hm?” Snot bubbled in her nostrils. She sniffed to keep it there.

“Can I be your apprentice?”

Another sneeze hurtled from her, this time marking the bundle at her feet. She wiped her nose and hoped the horses wouldn’t mind the nasty addition to their meal. “I thought you’d never ask.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassandra Hamm is a psychology nerd, jigsaw puzzler, and hopeless romantic who spends most of her time lost in another world. She hosts Instagram writing prompt contests every other month. Her work appears in various anthologies, including Stories that Sing and Bingeworthy from Havok Publishing, Warriors Against the Storm, and Faces to the Sun. She suspects she may one day end up as a cat lady (or the owner of a Warrior Clan).

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