The Magic Wagon, Part 4

So I’m back from my holiday, and to celebrate, here is the final part of The Magic Wagon. Hope you’ve enjoyed the story, I don’t think I’ll write another long one for a little while.

I’d like to critique my story. Should be spoiler-free, maybe read the story first though. I created it because I wanted an exercise in describing things. I think I’m good at dialogue, but I feel describing an environment is something I need to practice. Hopefully the magical descriptions conjure up some great images. My favourites are the descriptions of things that don’t quite work together, such as a vial of liquid winking. Good luck imagining that!

It’s quite a derivative piece. I think the only fantasy trope I came close to inverting was that of an ugly hag being the bad guy. The wagon is reminiscent of the Doctor’s TARDIS, being bigger on the inside. The shop reminds me a lot of Harry Potter’s stores, and Gringott’s bank. The Cave of Wonders in Aladdin springs to mind as well. The idea of the magic shop actually came from a computer game, Dragon Age 2. One of the expansions was a shop called the Black Emporium. I drew heavily from this source, as I was quite taken by it during gameplay.

However, fables are designed to have morals attached, and I am not happy with the moral of this story at all. I’d roughly planned out how everything was going to end up, but it wasn’t until I wrote the last sentence that I realised what the moral actually was. I won’t say it here (spoilers), but needless to say, not exactly the type of thing I’d teach to my children, especially in today’s financial climate. Anyway. Enjoy!
 
 
Part 4

It had been many days since the hag had first met the goblin. She travelled with him, working as his assistant in exchange for travel back to her village. He bought and sold items constantly, and every day the hag worked inside the Magic Wagon, cleaning and sorting the many mystical trinkets the goblin had collected. She explored the long and winding corridors of the wagon, ever marvelling at the wonders she found. In one room, thousands of tiny glass baubles were stacked high, each containing a single snowflake. In another, a gigantic loom, turned by invisible hands, weaved a rich cloth of such magnificent colours and such superb fineness that the hag wept as she caressed it. From some items she sensed a great power. In a small alcove, in the deepest dungeon of the wagon, a single candle of eternal flame flickered and resisted all attempts to extinguish it. On days the goblin paid the hag in heavy gold coins, great licks of fire from the candle scorched the alcove, and on days he ignored her, the conflagration dwindled to a faint glow. Regardless of payment, every day the hag tirelessly toiled for the goblin, and every day he grinned ever wider.

Finally, one cold morning, the wagon arrived at the hag’s village. The fields were bare, the ground dry and cracked. Some of the squat stone houses on the outskirts were blackened and burnt, victims of petty combat conducted by quarrelling warlords. The villagers, gaunt and pale, dressed in dirty rags, approached the colourful wagon cautiously.

“We have nothing to trade, traveller,” called out a villager, gesturing to the goblin, sitting on his wooden throne. “You will make no profit in this town.”

The goblin grinned.

The hag climbed out of the wagon and approached the villagers. When she was recognised, people eager for news of her quest quickly surrounded her, crying out for answers. As she told her tale, of the deaths of her companions, of her failure to find help, and of the pitiful amount of gold she had earned, one by one the villagers fell silent.

“Hag!” cried the goblin, as she finished her tale. “You have worked hard for me. During that time, you had many chances to steal many objects of power, but you did not. You had many chances to cheat me out of gold and silver, but you did not. You had many chances to save your village at my expense…but you did not.” The goblin grinned. “As such, I have decided to give you a gift.” He motioned to the back of the wagon.

Two young boys from the village dashed around and pulled the curtains of the wagon aside. Instead of an impossible staircase, or an assortment of wares, the wagon was bare save for a small dusty chest in one corner. The boys lifted it out and placed it in front of the hag. She could see it had faded gold writing along the sides, and the remains of orange paint on the lid.

One of the boys kicked open the lid. “It’s empty!” he cried. “What sort of gift is this?”

The wise old hag did not speak. She looked at the goblin, who nodded and grinned. She knelt down and closed the lid. She tapped the lock with a wizened finger. Three times. Moving to one side, she opened it again.

The villagers cried out as gold coins and gems exploded from the chest in a burst of colour. They ran for cover as gemstones the size of apples arced into the air and crashed to the ground. The hag watched in astonishment as golden crowns and sceptres tumbled out of the chest, including one that was unmistakably the circlet of Prince Mallan.

“These are crown jewels!” she gasped. “You tricked the Prince! His items weren’t hidden, they were just moved!”

The goblin grinned.

“What use are these trinkets?” cried a villager, crouched under the magic wagon to avoid the falling diamonds. “We cannot eat them! We cannot sow the fields with them!”

“No, we cannot,” smiled the hag. “There exist magical items that can give us food and drink, that can sow our fields and build our homes. Objects that can heal the sick and protect the living.” She turned to face the goblin. “And now we have enough to trade for them.”

The goblin grinned.
 
 
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