A Wizard Named Zweedle

Zweedle was the youngest and smallest graduate of Miss Filligree’s Homeopathic School for Wizardry.

“Now Zweedle, you must remember that the power is within you. Size does not matter to being a great wizard,” said the headmistress on graduation day.

Most serious wizards scoffed at her methods, but many wise women nodded to her ways. “The woman has a way with the ether,” they would say.

One day, Zweedle walked into the apothecary and asked. “I would like to purchase three drams of powdered death angel.”

The Chemist gave a long, incredulous stare, then asked. “What might one as tiny as you be doing with powdered death angel? Planning to do away with someone?” asked the man.

“Heavens no, I’m using it to rid Mrs. Tweedy’s barn of black slugs,” replied the boy.

“Black slugs, you say. Why not try wolfsbane? It’s safer, and no need to burn the dead beasties afterwards,” the Chemist suggested.

“No, sir, not for Arion ater. You’re thinking of Arion rufus, the brown slug. A common mistake,” said the boy.

The Chemist scratched his head at this strange little tike, then asked. “You wouldn’t be from Miss Filligree’s school, would you?”

“Why yes, I am,” said Zweedle, gleaming with pride.

“I’ll be a minute getting you the death angel,” the Chemist said, then disappeared behind the counter.

“What a wonderful place you have here. I wonder whether you need an apprentice?” asked Zweedle.

The Chemist popped his head up, glared at the boy, then a smile spread across his face. “Why yes, I do. It doesn’t pay much, but you can sleep in the back if you like,” replied the man.

“Sir, we have an arrangement,” beemed Zweedle.

After paying for his goods, Zweedle shook the Chemist’s hand enthusiastically and said, “I will be here at dawn.”

“Well, seven bells is fine, lad. Oh, I eat porridge and tea for breakfast, you are welcome to join me,” the Chemist said.

“I look forward to the food and studious conversations we are sure to share,” said the boy as he left.

“He’s an odd duck, but he’ll do just fine,” said the man. “I’d better get my fishing gear in order. Something tells me I’ll have free time on my hands soon enough,” said the Chemist with a wry smile.

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