A Touch of Wild Magic: Hunger and the Hand

Dragos sits on the dusty old stool in the abandoned room. It creaks quietly beneath him, splinters pressing into his palms as he rests his hands on the worn wooden seat. His sister, Ioana, sleeps on the pallet in the corner. The smell of rotted wood and mold pervades the air. The rotted out shutters on the windows did little to withhold the wind and rain from them, but it was drier than staying outside, as they had before. He looks up at Ioana, his dust-stained and thread-bare cloak covering her. Dragos could see her shiver for second as the wind blew through the house. He could hear his own stomach growling. 

Dragos looks at his hands. What have I done to be put in this position? Are magics truly so evil? Which of the gods has their wrath on Dragos Dobrescru? The twelve-year old resolves to stand up and go into town, to find work to earn food, maybe some new clothes. 

As he stands, grabbing his scarf, Ioana drowsily grabs for his sleeve, and sleepily says “Brother, where are you going? Back soon?” 

Dragos pats the back of her hand, and tucks his cloak in tightly around her, kissing her on the forehead, “Yes back in a flash sister, just getting us some food. Maybe a new cloak if I can find one.” 

Ioana smiles gently at him, as her eyes close into sleep once again. Dragos squeezes her hand one more time, as he stands up. He then wraps a scarf around his head to cover the small nubs of horns beginning to sprout from his forehead, as if the scarf could keep everything in. He could collect firewood on his way back, maybe he could surprise Ioana with a meal and a warm fire. That would make today a good day. 

He leaves the safety of their tiny cabin on the furthest edges of the village, hidden in a thicket of trees and brush. The steel-gray of the morning sun glinting against the low clouds; promising rain. A strong gust of wind swirls around Dragos, his fingers tingling. He shakes it off. No more of that, it never helps. He turns to look at the dilapidated hut, where it sits slumping into the earth, hard to see from the road. She’ll be safe in there. 

He wanders from the road and readjusts his scarf, making sure that it covered his horns as he entered town. The flags on the buildings flap wildly as the wind snaps at them. The town was just barely waking, roosters cawing as farmers walked about doing their chores, milking cows and forking hay to feed livestock. One by one, Dragos made his way to the farmers. 

The gate of the first farmer was roughly hewn, a few dogs running in the front of the lawn as the farmer leads a small crew of cows across the pasture. 

“Excuse me, Sir! Do you happen to have work for me? I’ll not ask for much besides food in payment!” Dragos yelled from outside the gate at the man who drowsily looks up at him. 

“Nah kid, no work here. Enough hands already.” The farmer says to him, not bothering to move closer to the gate. 

Dragos nods, the wind pulling at his scarf as he begins moving to the next farm. His heart dips a bit, but he tries to stay positive. So it went–gate after gate, farm after farm–the same refusals, the same tired eyes, each one gnawing at his hope like rats at scraps of cheese. Hours seemed to stretch on as dawn gave way to day, each rejection blurring into the last. 

At the last farm in the outskirts of the village, Dragos works up the courage to once again walk up to the rough wooden gate, a barnhouse raising beyond it next to a cottage. Surely someone here needs help 

Dragos sees the farmer and his dog out in the field, the farmer leading a yoked ox as it plows the field to prepare it for seed. He waves at the farmer who waves back to him, leading Dragos to ask, “Hello Sir! Do you need help today? I’ll ask for naught but food!” 

The farmer thinks for a second, and nods, “Sure son, I got some work you could do.” the farmer says as he begins to walk over to the gate to let Dragos into the property.
Dragos gives a big smile, thinking about Ioana. The wind gusts once again, this one stronger than the rest. It blows his scarf out of position, exposing one of his horns. He quickly fixes it, but it’s too late. The farmer notices, stepping from the fence and glaring at Dragos. 

Tears begin to well in Dragos’s eyes, as the farmer says “Get out of here, Devilspawn. I can’t believe I was tricked like this, I bet if I had let you in you would have cursed my crops!” The farmer whistles for his dogs, and grabs a nearby switch. He raises it threateningly. 

Dragos puts his arms up, and backs up. “There is no need for violence, Sir. I’m just hungry, and so is my sister. I don’t know magic. I just want to feed my sister.” The farmer’s expression remains unchanged as Dragos gets further away. It takes all of his strength not to give into the shattering of his hope, so close and yet, so far. Why have the gods cursed me so? I wish my illusions could cover my horns! These cursed gifts can’t solve the problems they present. I should see if the townfolk are kinder. The wind should at least be less in town.

His stomach growls as he approaches the town. The smell of freshly baked bread and cooking meats as the inns make breakfast make his mouth water, but he keeps walking. His heart aches as he sees some kids playing around in the street, pausing for a wagon to pass. It’s not his hunger he needs to sate. Once she has eaten, I shall eat myself. That is what big brothers do. The wind pulls at his scarf again, he puts a hand on it to keep it in place. 

He wanders through the town, seeing the market being set up for the day. Those vendors that brave the weather, setting their baskets of apples, corn, and potatoes on the tables. The bakery put out fresh loaves of bread on a table out front. Dragos thinks about taking one, but notices the baker’s wife watching him closely. 

Dragos kept looking around to see if any one needs help. Why does no one need help? Why is it when I need help there is nobody to help me? The pinpricks of tears begin in the corner of his eyes as he tries to fight them back. The wind gusts, this one strong enough to pull the scarf from his head, leaving his horns exposed to the world and sending the scarf down a nearby alley. 

His panic is immediate, he ducks into the alley as quickly as possible, while trying to maintain a low profile. He looks around in a flurry of rising fear, choking him in his throat as tears ebb from his eyes. His eyes find the scarf, floating in the middle of the alleyway. Held by a hand? 

A floating hand? What the hell? Dragos is momentarily stunned. Something deep within him stirring–familiar, frightening, inevitable. His panic over the scarf faltered, baffled by this chaotic event. For a few precious moments, there is wonder, confusion, and curiosity. Dragos takes a step closer, the digits seemingly offering him the scarf.
It gently lays the scarf in his possession, lingering there after passing the article of cloth. It is surprisingly feminine, the fingernails painted void black. The gray purplish skin of the hand seemingly iridescent as it floats there. From wrist to middle finger there is an ethereal chain, its link fading into and out of reality. It backs up a nail, a trail and tail of smoke leaving from the wrist where it should connect to a body. Dragos could feel invisible eyes observing him as much as he observed this phenomenon. 

Dragos says “Hello? Is there anyone here?”
The hand shakes left to right, moving closer to Dragos. Using its fingers to show an open palm, and levels that palm to Dragos. What in the hell? Should I shake this floating hand? What the fuck even is today?

The hand again imitates it’s gesture, urging Dragos to take it. Dragos looks around the alley, no people had followed him here. Dragos wraps his head once more, tightly winding the scarf to cover his horns. Those accursed horns. Damn them to the Nine Hells! 

Once settled and feeling more calm, Dragos’s attention returns to the hand, still there, offering it’s palm. Dragos tentatively reaches out his own hand and gently clasps the floating one. He thought it was surprisingly warm, surprisingly comforting as it grasped his hand. The hand moved closer, soothing his scarf and fixing his clothes, brushing the dirt off him. 

Befuddled by what the hand was doing, Dragos pushes it back for a second. He looks at it and speaks, “Can you understand me?”

It shakes vertically. 

“What are you…?” His voice trails off.

The appendage tilts, as if confused. Then points at Dragos.

“Me?” His eyebrows furrow as he thinks on this. What even is this? It’s not the illusions that the tribe loved so much. Something… more to this

It floats around, under Dragos’s supervision. It tilts at him, as it explores the surroundings, almost asking permission before going much further away. Dragos beckons it, curling his fingers. My desire destines it’s movement. The hand acquiesces and returns to Dragos, gently pulling at his wrist, leading him towards the main road. 

Immediately weary, Dragos looks at the hand and asks, “What could you possibly want in the street?” The hand waves at him, and begins to draw runes on his chest. 

Slowly, Dragos is able to decipher them as the tracing continues, writing the common runes on him as it thinks. “H. E. L. P. Y. O. U.” 

“Help me what? Eat?” Dragos asks the floating hand. An iota of hope returning to his voice. 

The hand shakes vertically, confirming his hope. It once again tugs on his wrist, leading him to the main road, where the vendors hustle and bustle is beginning as the sun rises higher. Maybe with this hand I can actually do something! Who expects to see just a floating hand? Not me, surely. The streets aren’t yet packed, but the wandering of folks in search of their days groceries create a nice morning flow of traffic. The hand stays in Dragos’s shadow as he moves into the street, the scarf around his head still affording him anonymity. 

The market is now in full morning swing, the baker’s table is brimming with loaves, boules, baguettes the scents of bread and rising yeast coming from the warm ovens behind them. Neighboring them, the butchers table lay full of sausages, meats, steaks, and venison from the local hunters. The smell of cooking meat forces Dragos’s stomach to rumble deeply, an intense ache rocks through his body. Oh boy, I can’t imagine how poor Ioana feels right now. The sense of urgency rushes through his body once the ache subsides. The hand pats Dragos on the back, sensing his fluctuation in his emotion.

Dragos sees his target, a basket of small loaves on the very edge of the table, hidden from the bakers by the boules of bread behind it. Close to it, a string of sausages hanging low. The crowd shifts and swirls, the metal clank of a town guard walking by make him pause for a second. He watches him pass, the royal red jerkin and the spear marching down the main strip. The winds gusts again, sending the smells of the market flooding into Dragos’s nose. I don’t want to have to steal. I tried to work for this. But I won’t let Ioana starve here!

Dragos inches closer, trying to blend in with the other market goers. Trying to look like a child from the town poking around. The crowd brings him in closer to the bucket, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the hand. It raises slightly, the fingers twitching like a hunting cat’s tail. Hovering. Waiting for him. Dragos feels the tingling in his own hands, flexing them. His stomach aching with hunger, but his heartbeat in his ears deafened him. I have to do this now! Or I will starve! And who will take care of her then?

He kneels for a second, as though dropping something, and begins to take the small crusty loaves and slipping as many into the pocket of his pants. Move, quickly, but quietly. Casual but fast. Can’t let them know. The hand acts at the same moment, moving to grab a handful of sausages and floating back into the alley. 

Dragos turns from the table casually, though nothing interested him at all. He begins to walk away, I did it! I can’t wait to show Ioana!. A shrill shout goes up, Dragos freezes. The baker’s wife shouting at him. His heart drops into his feet. In reaction, the hand darts upward, the fingers smoothly hooking the awning’s rope. A renewed gust of wind blusters down main street, egged on by invisible strings as the canvas comes crashing down. 

He freezes, the urge to run battling the weight in his feet. Should I run? Should I explain? Will they help? The crowd thrashes beneath the awning. The hand slams into his chest, sausages flying. A dog barks at the excitement. The hit gets Dragos moving, the ground slowly finding purchase beneath his feet as he runs. A villager’s hand comes from the crowd, missing Dragos by mere inches. His heart pounds in his ears as the shouts and pounding boots fade behind him, replaced by the whip of wind through the alleyways, the smell of smoke on the fringe of his senses. 

Dragos flees into the local forest, what remains between the tilled and groomed fields of the farm. He slowly circles back around the town, noticing a plume of smoke coming from the town center. Did I cause that? Was that the awning we collapsed? I hope everyone is ok. Dragos avoids the farmers this time, avoiding any human or canine that he saw. He slowly manages to make it back to their dilapidated hut, Ioana sitting up looking into the gray sky, reflecting her gray eyes. 

“Brother! You came back! I was beginning to get worried!” She beams.

“Yes, sweet sister, and I have found us food! A veritable feast for us!” Dragos says, producing the bread from his pockets. 

Ioana’s smile falters; her face goes pale as she sees the hand floating behind him, still clutching the now slightly dusty sausages. 

“It is ok Ioana! This is a friend of mine. I think it might be my magic?” Dragos says, trying to comfort his sister. 

The hand lays down the food on the table, and pats Dragos’s head again. It straightens his jacket, hangs up the cloak that Ioana left on the ground, and brushes the dust from Dragos’s legs, clouds of dust flowing from the legs of his pants. This is a good hand. A new friend.

“Dragos, can we go into town today?” Ioana asks her big brother. 

“Not today, in fact I think we should probably move again in the morning, get away from this town. They are not partial to our kind here. We are still Devilspawn here, not children.” Dragos says sadly, between bites of the bread. The taste of the loaf turning to ash in his mouth as he thinks about the bitter hatred he endured today. 

Ioana nods sadly in agreement with Dragos. The hand ruffles both of their hair and draws the common runes on the back of Dragos’s hands again. 

P. O. I. N. T. M. A. G. I. C. L. I. G. H. T. M. E.

Dragos does his best and, through no small effort, summons minor illusions to cast a candlelit shadow of the hand on the wall. The hand waves at both of them, gaining their attention, and begins to perform. Shadow Puppets. 

Dragos and Ioana laugh and giggle as his magic entertains them, feeling full bellies for the first time in many moons.