Splint Second

By Pamela Love

It takes a special kind of stupid to ride a dragon drunk.

Or maybe I rode a drunk dragon. The details are fuzzy. Many things are fuzzy right now, starting with where I am and how far I fell before I landed.

I open my eyes. Currently, they’re the only parts of my body that don’t hurt.

I am Outside—the wrong kind of Outside. A proper Outside is the short distance to be crossed between two civilized Insides, like a house and tavern. Or a carriage and another tavern.

This is Outside-Outside. Trees. Rocks. Dirt. Dirt in which I am lying. Dirt in which there are creatures. Tiny, wretched bugs. Crawling onto my hand.

I sit up and shake off the little trespassers. Gah. Both actions are mistakes, because now nothing is distracting me from the throbbing agony in my right leg. With extreme care, I feel along my shin. Why yes, it’s broken. Thanks for asking.

It’s times like this that it’s good to be a magician. One wave of my wand will fix my broken bone. A second wave will bring me transportation back to Inside. Sucking in my breath, I lean against the tree beside me. Yes, a wand is a wonderful thing.

Where is mine, again?

Not in the wand pocket on my trouser leg, where it should be. My increasingly nervous fingers dig into other pockets in my trousers, and even my shirt pocket, where it never would have fit. I crane my neck, searching back along the path of branches I must have broken during my fall. About an arm’s length away, a familiar rosewood tip rests atop a non-rosewood tree root. Ah. With a smile, I pluck it like a berry—one missing part of its stem.

I moan and twist around, letting out a horrific shriek as my leg sends an unfriendly reminder of its break. A few inches from my knee lies the wand’s cracked-off bottom half. Two splintered ends equals one helpless magician.

So, I’ll have to wait until someone finds me. I sigh. Is anybody even looking? How large is my bar tab? Probably not big enough to make the tavern keeper care about my whereabouts. You know life isn’t working out the way it should when you hope that you stole a dragon.

A drop rolls down my cheek. Another follows. No, I’m not crying. I look up. It’s starting to rain. All right, now I’m crying.

What I’m not doing is giving up. I wipe my face with my left sleeve, which is slightly cleaner than the right. I’m wandless but not helpless. Maybe I can walk out. Plenty of big sticks are lying around. I knocked them down, didn’t I? I grab one, lean on it, and try to stand.

Okay, people must’ve heard my wail just now, possibly on another continent. But I can’t count on them coming to help. I scared myself—anyone with sense is no doubt heading the other way at top speed.

Maybe I can splint my leg. I’ve seen sketches. How hard could it be?

I reach across a root and grab a stick that seems roughly the right size. At least I think so—it’s not as if I normally go around estimating the lengths of fallen branches. But how can I tie it to my leg? Adventurers in stories always seem to find useful vines. I squint at the nearby trees. Nothing handy. Could I cut up my shirt? With what?

I fumble through my pockets again, as if that would help. It’s hopeless. I don’t own a jackknife. When you’ve got a wand, you really don’t need one, or much of anything else.

Here’s something. I pull out a handkerchief from my shirt pocket. “Guess wands don’t handle quite everything,” I mutter. “Not that it matters. It’s not as if this is big enough to tie the stick onto my—wait.”

Gritting my teeth, I fit the pieces of my wand back together. Then I put a twig beside them, wrap the conglomeration in my handkerchief, and knot the cloth.

I give my wand a test wave, mostly to make sure it won’t fall apart. I expect a miniature fireworks display. Instead, a single spark dribbles from the tip. It’ll have to do. I re-tie the knot, take a deep breath, wave my wand and make a wish, then another.

Emergency brooms arrive five minutes later. I’m easy to spot, standing on my mended leg. My idea worked. Nobody I’ve heard of ever splinted a broken wand before, maybe because nobody’s ever had to. After all, who’s stupid enough to ride a dragon drunk?

Or maybe ride a drunk dragon.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey, and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test”, which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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