"Whoa there, firecracker!" Edgar laughed, sidestepping his adult daughter's energetic entrance. "You're gonna take someone's eye out with that hair if you're not careful."
“Not funny, dad. It’s unruly today, I know. But I don’t’ have time.” Honey attempted to pat her mass of curls down, but failed. She grinned and slide past Edgar toward the large farmers table running down the middle of the kitchen, grabbing a muffin from the center.
“You look beautiful, as always.” Edgar squeezed her shoulders. “But do I see a bit more spring in your step this morning?”
"Yes. You do. I'm excited. It’s October and we have lots of great things happening in Cauldron Falls."
"Ah, the big send off for Colin and Gloria, sure. But I thought you’d be sad about that one, dear," Edgar grabbed the last muffin off the table.
"I am," Honey said through a mouthful of blueberries and dough. “But I’m also excited to meet Dr. Wimpleton. As a member of the Cauldron Falls welcoming committee, I’ve got a lot to do to prepare for his arrival, and their send-off, and not a lot of time.”
“Well, don’t forget your chores.” Rhoda pushed through the Cadillac swinging door with an arm full of files. “Edgar, we’ve got to get on the road. These familiars are not going to transport themselves.”
“Yes, dear.” Edgar huffed and slumped his shoulders.
“You can’t possibly be sad about transporting around the world for the next few weeks?” Rhoda raised an eyebrow in his direction as she tied the files together with a length of twine.
“Of course not, my dear. I live to rescue the wayward and abandoned. But we are going to the party first, right?” Edgar slide behind his petite wife and leaned down to kiss her cheek.
Rhoda smiled, “Edgar Hadwin, of course we’re going to see Colin and Gloria off on their honeymoon. That would be rude not to.” She turned to him and kissed him back.
“And you have to meet Dr. Wimpleton.” Honey interjected. “He’ll be at the party, too.”
“We’ll meet and greet, party, and then leave. How’s that?” Rhoda swooped the stack of neatly tied folders off the table and glided past her husband and her daughter. “Right now, we work.”
Edgar shook his head, “that woman…”
“Is amazing, I know Dad. You say it every day.” Honey rolled her eyes.
“Well, she is. And so are you. But we better get to work, or you know what will happen.” Edgar snapped his fingers and a bevy of brooms, mops, and cleaning cloths began to clean the kitchen.
“Definitely, I do not want to give up house magic.” Honey grimaced.
“Me either. I’m going to make the rounds, get all our familiars up and at it. Why don’t you set up the parlor for our counseling sessions?” Edgar slurped the last bit of coffee from his mug and tossed it in the air, not bothering to watch as a white linen towel cradled the falling mug and dunked it into a sink full of suds.
“Yes, sir.” Honey gave Edgar a nod as he left. Her parents were still the same loving, hard working, couple that had taken her in so many years ago. And they’d taught her those values. She would set up the parlor, help her father, do all her chores, and take care of every familiar in FACTS & FIBS, while her parents were gallivanting around the world rescuing more familiars. Secretly, she hoped that one day she’d be the rescuer. Maybe that was the missing piece in her life. But for now, she was content to wait her turn.
The Professor
CauldronFallswasatown that seemed to have sprung from the pages of a fairy tale. Its enchanting waterfall cascaded down a mossy cliff, feeding into a crystal-clear river that meandered through the heart of the picturesque village. The magical aura of the falls imbued the town with an otherworldly charm, attracting beings of all sorts—witches, warlocks, and familiars alike. Whimsical architecture adorned the cobblestone streets, with buildings boasting crooked chimneys, ornate gables, and windows that seemed to twinkle with a perpetual twilight. A faint scent of sage and lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the enticing aroma of fresh-baked goods from the cafe.
As Dr. Clive Wimpleton stepped off the rickety bus that had brought him to Cauldron Falls, he took a moment to survey his surroundings. His lustrous silver hair, a bit disheveled from the trip, framed a face creased with lines etched by years of studious frowning.Clive walked through the grove of gingko trees lining the town square in Cauldron Falls. Their leaves were in full-blown iconic golden color, under the spectacle, some unsightly verdures were already turning brown. He noticed a few leaves had already fallen to the ground. The center quad of the small magical town was a slice of heaven, any time of year. But no other month was as beautiful as this. October was when Cauldron Falls put on a show of nature that couldn’t be touched by another place on earth. The smoky smell of wood burning somewhere in the distance, mixed with the mist from the waterfall, created a perfect combination of distinctively crisp air. Cauldron Falls was a veritable smorgasbord of all that was good about the world when it’s slowly slipping into the slumber of winter.
Clive knew all too well, being an expert in history, that the last show of anything; theatre, life, seasons— was always the best, the most heartfelt, and the one everyone remembered. He’d been told every day in October in Cauldron Falls felt like the last show. He pulled his tweed sport coat together at the buttons and checked to ensure his sweater vest was ever-so-slightly tucked into his jeans as a shiver ran down his spine. His smart attire not only portrayed the image Clive so desperately clung to, it was practical, and protected him from the late October breeze, however pleasant. His stride had purpose, because he had purpose. He’d been called to Cauldron Falls by his old friend Colin Scott. The pair had suffered through their awkward pre-full-blown warlock days at university together.
In his humble opinion, Clive turning out far better than poor Colin, who was a mere bookseller—owning Spellbinders, the small bookshop and library here in Cauldron Falls. Clive took a deep breath, shook his head a muttered to himself.What a bore. Not the surrounded by books part—that was his own natural state, as a professor at the University of Magic. The boring part was the shop. Why anyone would ever want to run a business was unbeknownst to Clive. He much preferred reading, lecturing, and learning as he had his whole adult warlock life, until three months ago, when he retired. That pill of a word stuck in his throat. Retirement. He felt the bile rising in his belly, as it did every time he dwelled on the meaning of that word. The only good thing about retirement was embossed on the business cards carefully tucked into a gold carrying case that bounced along this journey in his front blazer pocket—professor emeritus.
That one little Latin word guaranteed Clive would be forever cemented into the history of the University. And because of that, he’d never really be fully retired. He had been certain they’d call on him to guest lecture, and mentor, and well, to just exist in the hallways, and around campus. But he’d been sorely mistaken. While his merits and works were still celebrated, retirement felt more like a limp balloon being swept away in the wind—afloat with no direction. No string.
Three months ago, Clive had packed his boxes, left his office of one hundred plus years, and watched from his bungalow, across the street from campus, as some young man barely thirty moved into his space, taught his classes, and was now drinking morning tea with Clive’s colleagues—discussing theories, students, and the universities new policy on teaching the old ways of wands and brooms. Of which Clive had both a working wand and broom—antiques in perfect condition, while he surmised the young man, now living his life, had neither.
The debate of teaching the old crafts had been raised by Clive over ten years ago, but nearly lost steam under his smothering. His obsession with the traditional crafts of magic were all Clive could remember, or cared to teach and talk about. He refused to advance his curriculum with the new methods of digital spells and micro lectures. Hence, it was suggested to him by none other than the Dean of the University that he retire. So he did, and here he was in Cauldron Falls.
If the truth be known, the old ways were all Clive could seem to keep in his brain. His retention for anything new was fleeting. Clive Wimpleton’s short-term memory was not what it used to be, and that was nothing he cared to reveal to anyone. Thus, he graciously accepted Dean Lamasery’s suggestion to retire.
He knew his melancholic demeanor would be apparent to anyone who chanced upon him, but he shuffled his highly polished wingtip loafers on the sidewalk past the Conjure House restaurant, anyway. Stopping in front of an alleyway across the street from a purple front door, he pondered. He seemed to vaguely remember that door. Pulling a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, Clive read his scribblings, purple door = bookstore. Rhyming was one of the many tricks he used to keep new information from escaping him. It worked better if he repeated the simple ‘middle rhyme’ to himself at least a half-dozen times, which is exactly what he had done on his bus journey to Cauldron Falls. Purple door equals bookstore, purple door equals bookstore, purple door equals bookstore.
He shoved the paper back into this pocked, looked up and read the word scrolling across the transom. Spellbinders. He’d made it to the right place, thank goodness. Staring through the large picture window, which was flanked by stained glass panels, Clive paused for another moment before going into the shop. He slowly surveyed the exterior. The shop's façade was a charming blend of cobblestone and wood, adorned with ivy that seemed to dance around the window, as if it had a mind of its own.The whole place was glowing, bathed in a soft yellow light from the late afternoon sun. The stoop was decorated with flower pots overflowing with red, gold, and purple mums. At the base of each terracotta container lay an array of pumpkins and gourds. Just under the large picture window sat twin wrought-iron tables, each home to four matching chairs. Spellbinders was lovely, it was full of books, and people. Picture perfect, if he was honest. Yet, he already hated the place.
