Lucy A. McLaren

Back in May, I shared an old short story I’d written in 2002 for a school assignment. It was a story I recall being very proud of and I kept it safe all these years (one of the only early stories of mine I have saved, in fact).

Below, you’ll find my re-write of this story. It’s not perfect, the story obviously has flaws, but it’s how I would write it now. I hope you enjoy it!

Can you change a man?

It is possible of course, but how should you go about it?

I was a poor man once—a wizard—and I lived in Fogmoore, a rundown, decrepit excuse for a town, ruled by the most selfish king ever to rule any kingdom.

King Lanelle was known across the continents for his uncaring nature. His only want and desire was gold, gems, treasures from across the world… anything he could use to display his immense wealth and power. The people of Fogmoore—my friends and neighbours—lived in poverty while the king held extravagant balls and parties. Anyone who dared try to petition the king, desperation in their hungry eyes, would get no pity; they would simply be thrown into the dungeons. But we believed it was our only chance—that one day, our king might see sense—and so more and more people were lost.

As I sat one day, comforting a woman who had lost her husband in just such a way, I felt something snap inside my heart. There had been an anger nestled there for some time. Simmering beneath the surface, I had lived my days ignoring its presence. What good would it do, I had asked myself, to allow it loose? It wouldn’t assist me in providing aid for the poor wretches who came to me daily, seeking what little support I could give.

Today, my frail and tired body could contain it no longer. There was a rush of indignation, grief and rage through my veins, such that my hands began to tremble.

The woman beside me removed her hands from her face, looking to me with a frown. “Nicholas?” she said, voice thick with the tears that still flowed down her ruddy cheeks. “W-what is it?”

I squeezed her arm. “Nothing, my dear Agatha,” I said, giving a fleeting smile. Either she was easily convinced, or she was simply too lost in her own emotions to care about the lie. She nodded, running a corner of her ragged dress sleeve across her face to dry her tears. She wasn’t an old woman, but her skin showed the weathering of days in the sun, toiling the fields outside the town, doing what she could to scrape a living.

“I- I’m sorry for this,” she said. “I didn’t know who else t’ turn to. You’ve always been so kind.”

“Nonsense,” I said, standing from the wooden bench upon which we sat. “Now let me see about that tincture. It’ll help with the sleep problems. Give you some rest, eh?” I didn’t wait for a response before I moved to my shelf of herbs and began picking out jars, placing a pinch of this and a dash of that onto a small square of linen before tying it off and handing it to Agatha. “Steep it in boiled water for ten minutes and drink it while it’s fresh. You’ll feel much calmer, I assure you.”

“Thank you,” she said. She pocketed the tincture and made to untie the coin purse at her waist—pitifully empty. I waved my hand at her.

“No, no, I’ll take no payment for it. Your husband made that bench for me, do you remember?”

She nodded, giving a wavering smile.

“Be well, Agatha.”

She sniffed again, bowing her head as she creaked open the door of my humble shack and disappeared from view. I shivered at the chill breeze that gusted through the door, banging it shut in its rickety frame. Once I was sure she was gone, I moved to my bookshelf and ran my fingers along the ancient tomes—my most valuable possessions, though no one would know it to look at them. I stopped at a particular book, pulled it free and moved back to the wooden bench.

Before opening it, I ran my fingers along the etched words of the cover. Once gold, the embossing had faded so as to be almost invisible. A cloud of dust wafted from the pages as I opened it; it had been some time since I’d felt the tiny spark of magic within me, dulled as it was by living in this Gods-forsaken place. It did not take long to find the very spell I would need. It was a risk, I knew; King Lanelle was said to be a heartless king… Yet, how could a man be truly so? I did not believe it—and so I made a decision and took the risk.

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I had gone to bed in my palace, in my chambers, beneath blankets of the finest wool and silk.

A chill wind whistled past my face and the bare skin on my arms prickled with gooseflesh. Something was very wrong.

I lifted my hand to cover my eyes against the stark grey of the cloudy sky above, groaning at the dull throb in my head. As I blinked around, I came to realise the direness of my situation.

Where was I?

I heaved myself into an upright position, noticing that my clothes had been removed and replaced with a grubby old sack.

It was then that the smell hit me. I was sitting in a stinking alley, surrounded by mud and rotting food, and far worse besides. I wrinkled my nose and swallowed back the bile burning up my throat. I would need a hot bath to wash away this filth. I hardly dared moved for fear of touching anything else unpleasant.

How had I ended up here? Surely this wasn’t real.

“A dream,” I grumbled. “Just a dream.” I leaned my head back against the brick wall behind me and closed my eyes, waiting to wake in my warm quilts, beside a crackling fire.

“Comfortable?” asked a stern voice.

Bristling with irritation, I frowned and reluctantly opened my eyes. Scowling down at me was a wiry, grey-haired man wearing clothes that closely resembled the sack I’d awoken in. “Go away, old man,” I snapped. Then I snorted to myself. “Why bother? It’s a dream, after all… No matter at all.” I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes once more.

To my alarm, I heard a harsh, barking laugh from the old man. “A dream? Idiot.”

I was on my feet in an instant, rage surging through my body. Before the old man had a chance to react, I had him pinned up against the opposite wall. “What did you call me?” I spat. “How dare you speak to me in such a—”

The old man laughed again. “A dream?” he croaked. “This is not a dream, I assure you. Do you not recognise your own beloved Fogmoore, your highness?”

“Excuse me?” I released my grip on his shoulders and stepped back from him, mouth agape. Some part of me couldn’t ignore the niggling sense that this was Fogmoore, that this wasn’t a dream at all. “You lie.”

“Turn right down that street, keep walking up the hill, and eventually you will reach your palace,” the old man said, waving his arm lazily behind me. “It is a traipse that many of my neighbours have made to plea for your aid… for your mercy.”

Ignoring the curl of the old man’s lip, the hatred burning his dark blue eyes, I scoffed and walked towards the street, all the while telling myself I would awaken in my chamber at any moment.  I sensed him at my back, though his footsteps were silent. I placed a hand on the rough wall at the end of the alley and peered out. More of the same filth, the same decrepit buildings, mud and manure. And the people. So miserable. I could barely contain the laugh that bubbled up from my stomach.

“This isn’t Fogmoore!” I turned on the old man, who, to my satisfaction, stumbled backwards. “And if this isn’t a dream, then you have a lot to answer for.” I jabbed a finger into his bony chest, noticing for the first time the absence of my gold rings. “Kidnapping, theft, lying to a King.” I pushed him back with every word until he was against the alley wall once more, where my hands clamped around his throat. “Yes, I will make sure your punishment is severe.”

Again, the old man laughed, though his eyes watered, his breath wheezed and his face reddened. I clenched my teeth, releasing my grip though all I wanted to do was keep squeezing until the life left his eyes. “What is so amusing, you fool?”

He wiped away the tears that ran down his pale, sunken cheeks, cutting tracks through the dirt mottling his skin. “You do not believe this is your kingdom, King Lanelle?” he asked. “The kingdom whose people you allow to live in squalor? Whose people you throw into the dungeons for daring to ask for what they need?” The old man’s voice had become a whisper, venomous and sharp. He shoved me away, surprisingly strong for one of his years, and pointed northward. “Look over there,” he said. “What do you see?”

And there, gleaming in the meagre sunlight, was a golden turret.

The very turret that capped the tower in which my chambers were located.

I gulped, seeing the street and alley around me with renewed disbelief. How could this be Fogmoore? And more importantly, how had I ended up here? I narrowed my eyes at the old man. Kidnap. He hardly looked strong enough, but it was clear he was tenacious, bitter, full of hatred; he must have found a way past my guards. What was to stop me from simply returning to my home, sending my guards back here to drag him away?

As if reading my thoughts, he said, “You might think of marching towards it, attempting to gain entry but know this: you will be unrecognisable to your own palace guards. They’ll likely throw you in your own dungeons.” The old man chuckled. “Which would not be an undeserved fate…”

“What? How dare you! This is beyond treason, you old—”

“Now, enough of that, your highness. Really, a tantrum will hardly help you now.” He rolled his eyes. Before I had a chance to say anything else, the old man snapped his fingers. “Come with me,” he said, starting to walk away. When I didn’t move, he turned back and raised an eyebrow. “Or do you not wish to return to your beloved palace?”

He walked away again and this time I followed. He might be lying, but I appeared to have no other choice in that moment.

Not far from the alley, we approached a ramshackle building. The old man approached a crooked wooden door hanging from its hinges and pulled it open. Without looking back, he disappeared into the dim room beyond. I took a final glance at my surroundings before following him inside.

“Sit,” the old man said, waving me towards a wooden bench. Beside it was a small table upon which flickered a single candle flame. As I sat, I eyed the curious brown leather tome that lay atop the table, though the old man snatched it away with a frown.

“Well?” I said sharply. “How will I get back to my palace?”

The old man smoothed down his clothes—a ridiculous attempt at neatening himself—and cleared his throat. He lifted his chin as he looked me in the eye. “You must swear to help the people of Fogmoore. Give us what we need—food, homes, clothing. Surely you want your own kingdom to prosper! Surely you see that this must be done!”

I bit my lip so as to hold back a smirk. This is his demand? Not gold or riches or fame for himself, but food and clothes? Old fool. “Of course, what do you—”

The old man held his hand up to silence me. “If you swear to do this but do not feel it here,” he placed a hand over his chest, “in your heart, then you will remain on these streets. You will live as one of us. You will never go back.”

Something about the vehemence with which the old man spoke told me he was telling the truth. I thought of my palace, of my fine clothes and jewels, the fawning nobles and doting servants. I looked around at the man’s home—threadbare furnishings, crumbling walls—and at the worn clothes we both wore.  Yes, I had to get back as soon as possible. “In my heart?” I asked.

He nodded, eyes burning fiercely as he watched me, lips pressed into a thin line.

I smiled and nodded. I knew what I had to do. “Very well,” I said, standing. “But first, tell me your name.”

The old man, perhaps surprised at my rapid agreement to his terms, allowed himself the briefest of smiles. “Nicholas,” he said. “My name is Nicholas. I am a wizard, your highness, who is loyal to the people of Fogmoore.”

“I see that, Nicholas,” I said, patting his arm. “I see that you did what you thought you must. Now, tell me what I must do.”

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It has been many weeks since that day.

That day when I came up with the answer to aid my friends and neighbours, to save the people of Fogmoore. And now, as I sit here, a damp and moss-covered dungeon wall before me, a dank, hay-filled mattress as my bed, I know that you can never change a man, if that man has no heart.