The old wizard walked with purpose, one hand grasping an intricately carved wooden staff, the other resting lightly on his weathered belt. You might expect him to be wearing a luxurious robe, as wizards are wont to do; in fact, he was dressed sensibly in woollen trousers, tunic and cape, for there was a long road ahead and he wished to be comfortable in these, his last days.
His snow-white hair, you might be surprised to hear, was not long and flowing, nor did he have a beard. He’d tried to grow one in his youth (more years ago than he cared to admit) but had failed miserably. Consequently, he became the first beardless member of the Wizard’s Guild. This caused some controversy, as you can surely imagine, but his prowess in the field of pure magic—that is, the kind of magic that is good, kind and true—had soon stopped any murmurings on the matter.
Absent-mindedly, he reached down to stroke the head of his faithful hound, Esther. She licked his wrinkled hand, her rheumy eyes meeting his own. For nearly two decades, she had been by his side. Of late, her movements were stiff and slow, much like his own. They were on their final journey together and soon they would rest.
He smiled with contentment, for he had lived a rich, adventure-filled life. His time had come and peace filled his heart.
***
Many miles eastward, a brown-eyed young boy skirted along the shore of a crystalline lake and entered a cabin. It had stood for many years as a beloved home. From the outside, it was a simple wooden shack. Inside, however, the cabin extended far higher than you might ever believe, surely reaching towards the clouds overhead. The walls were lined with books and jars, brightly coloured plants and mysterious glass orbs. Amongst it all, a ladder rested against the shelves as a means of reaching the very highest of objects. The boy’s breath caught in his throat, as it always did when he entered.
“Will you ever stop doing that?” asked his companion, a sleek black cat named Cat.
The boy chuckled, not responding to Cat’s sardonic stare. He walked across the cabin and laid a hand on the blanket folded atop the bed, finding it cold to the touch. It was then he saw the ancient leather tome on the rickety bedside table. Attached to it was a scrap of parchment, scrawled with intricate writing. He lifted it with a shaking hand.
“You know what this means,” Cat said, causing the table to wobble as she leapt atop it. She sniffed delicately at the parchment, attempting to regain her dignity.
The young wizard gulped. He had long been trained for this moment, though that did little to calm his racing heart.
“You can do it,” Cat said, unusually gentle as she nudged his hand with her cool nose.
With renewed strength and purpose, the boy nodded and began gathering various herbs and mysterious powders from the jars about the cabin, placing each into a pouch secured at his belt. Though it might appear he did so at random, his deft movements between shelves high and low told otherwise.
Finally, with the well-worn book clutched beneath his arm, he gave the cabin a final glance and headed for the door. As he did so, the note drifted to land upon the earthen floor.
It said four words:
Don’t grow a beard.
Lucy A. McLaren 
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