Wizards and the Wrath of Bessie

By Arlan Gerig

Lightning slashes the sky. “Walfort, take us back to land!” I yell into the storm. “We’ll look for Bessie another day.”

“Don’t be a wimp, Gwynfar. We told Zofan we would eliminate this sea serpent,” Walfort shouts. “I’m here because I’m a wand master and you’re a mediocre wizard. I’m not even sure you’re good moral support. You brought a snack, but it’s not a picnic!”

I stare over the edge of the boat and briefly catch my rippled reflection. My face is greener than the water. I groan and slip down to the bilge. Another wave pounds us, sending our flimsy craft to a scary angle before it rights itself once more.

“I’ve never been on a sailing vessel before,” I yell. I’m too sick to debate why I’m here. “Bessie only sank four ships, and King Rupert has plenty more. Let’s go home before we drown.”

Walfort normally crosses his arms and smirks condescendingly when he deems my comments ridiculous. The storm saves me from that humiliation. He holds on to the mast with its tightly furled sail.

“What about the twenty sailors Bessie killed? You want to sacrifice more?”

“I don’t want to be number twenty-one! Besides, wizards melt when they get wet.”

Walfort laughs. “Gwynfar, you use that excuse before every bath, and it’s witches who melt, not wizards.”

I grit my teeth. I don’t understand why my trusted mentor Zofan sent me on this mission with an arrogant junior dimwit like Walfort. Other than his better wand skills, we have similar spell-casting abilities. Neither of us have experience with sea serpents.

“Lizards and broomsticks, Gwynfar! Stop moaning and look for Bessie.”

I frown. We’re going hoarse from yelling into the wind and rain. I don’t think my wand is waterproof either, but I change the subject.

“Why is she named Bessie? That’s a cow’s name. Anything else is better, like Nessie.”

Walfort shakes his head. “That name’s taken.”

My head throbs and my stomach is doing flips along with the boat, so I do the only logical thing for a wizard at sea. I peel an orange.

Even in the storm, I can smell the fresh citrus. It washes out the saltwater and dead fish odor. I love a good orange.

Walfort rolls his eyes. “You’re going to eat that in the middle of a storm?”

“It helps the seasickness.”

Whether it does or not, I peel and then bite the juicy flesh. The sweet tanginess dances on my tongue. I almost forget where we are. I throw the peels overboard, and Walfort yells at me. Again.

“Gwynfar, you’ve got to focus. I don’t know why you brought fruit. You’ll just lose it over the side sooner or later.”

I’m not listening. I’ve frozen in place, staring through the cold rain.

“W-Walfort,” I stammer.

I point behind him. Walfort turns with a start. Bessie towers over us, her long neck rippling and twisting. Her mouth opens and four long fangs point our direction. She roars, and my robes become wetter than they already were.

Lightning crackles, thunder rumbles, and the brief flash highlights Bessie’s dark-green scales and large mouth. I fumble for my wand, but Walfort is quicker. He zaps a blue electric streak below Bessie’s chin. She snarls and slaps the water with her head.

Our boat crests a big wave and crashes into the trough behind it, nearer to the sea monster than I care to be. Of course, ten miles away would be closer than I care to be. Bessie spies me and approaches, her forked tongue flicking and fangs glinting.

I scream and wave my wand. Green lightning hits a poor seagull and sends it splashing into the water. I dive into the bottom of the boat, and Bessie chomps the hull where I stood five seconds earlier.

“Walfort!” I shriek.

He’s hanging on to the mast, whipped back and forth by the heaving waves. Walfort’s wand slips from his hand and flies into the water. We both whimper. Zofan would know what to do, but we’re just two terrified apprentices.

I really don’t want either of us to be eaten. I dig for something else to defend ourselves with, but we only have oars and my snack tucked in a corner.

Bessie’s not close enough to hit with an oar, so I angrily hurl an orange at her. She catches the fruit midair and gulps it down. She stares at me and opens her mouth. I stop screaming like a little girl and grab another orange. I toss it gently this time, testing her. I’m not disappointed. Bessie makes a perfect dive and catches it with her tongue.

I think she smiles.

“Walfort!” I shout above the storm, keeping one eye on Bessie, who watches my every movement. “What were those sailors carrying on their boats?”

“Mostly coal and silver,” he calls. “Some apples, too.”

I grin. “She’s not going after sailors. She likes fruit.”

I toss Bessie an orange, and she catches it with a perfect snap.

Walfort chuckles. “I’m impressed, Gwynfar! Do you have a plan?”

I direct him through the storm to the nearest outcropping of land. I pick out the seeds of my last orange, throw the fruit to Bessie, then leap to shore. I find a place near the water and bury the seeds in the muddy mess, then I complete my work with a quick-growing spell.

Within minutes, seedlings sprout. Branches snake toward the sky. Walfort adds a pollination spell to the saplings, and Bessie swims back and forth, growling at us to hurry.

The storm abates, the sky grows lighter, and buds appear on the branches. When the first oranges are ripe, I toss one to Bessie’s waiting jaws.

She munches happily, and I smile. Zofan and King Rupert will be pleased that two inexperienced apprentices tamed the ferocious beast, but we’ll have to convince sailors not to touch this tree.

Or face the wrath of Bessie.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arlan Gerig has a love for fantasy and sci-fi that is often reflected in his writing. He has recently published with Havok and has a YA sci-fi novel currently under construction. Although his church’s mission trip to the poverty-stricken side of the Bahamas has been postponed twice, he hopes to go next year. Arlan lives with his wife, three kids, two dogs, a cat and a rabbit.

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