2007 Entry into a short story competition that unfortunately did not win because apparently short story adjudicators don’t like fantasy…
I hung up my oilskin with relief. It dripped on Bruce’s bunyip, who scrabbled closer to the door and watched me suspiciously. I sat down, elbows on the bar, as my staff balanced itself on my knees. ‘Caught in the downpour, Alan?’ Bruce asked, polishing a glass. ‘Doesn’t often rain here,’ he continued. ‘Have a beer, mate.’
He swirled a finger around the rim of the glass and slid it along the bar to me while the purple clouds rumbled outside. His face split into a grin. ‘Let there be beer!’ he said with a flourish, and beer, frothy and rich, filled the glass to the brim.
‘Let there also be bread, barbequed steak, plenteous members of the opposite sex and enough alcohol to make it a thoroughly enjoyable weekend,’ a voice declared from the door. I spun around, nearly spilling my drink, and Bruce laughed. The bunyip murmured a greeting – or it could have been anything.
‘G’day Cimmon,’ I said, smiling at the man in the doorway. ‘Come for the market? Bad luck mate, it’s raining.’ But Cimmon was smiling. My friend was bone-dry, and his staff rested easily in his hand. Although he was partially outside, the raindrops diverted in midair and missed him.
‘This is your work!’ Bruce exclaimed, indicating the storm. Cimmon grinned, and tapped his staff on the ground. The weather obeyed and thunder crashed. ‘Have a beer,’ Bruce offered. ‘On the house.’
Cimmon shook his head. ‘Nah, but thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m after a different sort of yeast.’ He pointed his staff at Fred’s bakery stall next door. I opened my mouth to dissuade him but he had already gone to stand under the baker’s shelter. We shared a glance, Bruce and I, and watched nervously through the open door.
Fred eyed Cimmon with wary dislike. Thunder grumbled. ‘I’d like two loaves, please,’ Cimmon said. Fred planted his knuckles on the foldaway bench.
‘I don’t serve wizards here,’ he growled. So did the thunder. The smell of the bread wafted into the bar and made me hungry.
‘Two loaves, please,’ Cimmon repeated. Fred’s nostrils flared.
‘I said, I don’t…’
‘I heard,’ Cimmon’s voice was tighter. I drank, worried. Fred’s scowl deepened and his fists clenched. Thunder smashed overhead. We knew of Fred. The best bread in the district, no question, but he never served the likes of us. Cimmon’s grey eyes fastened on Fred.
Lightning sizzled, momentarily blinding us. As the glare faded, we saw a cane toad squatting on the bench, large eyes blinking up at the wizard who held two loaves of bread in his arms. A ten-dollar note floated down to rest beside the warted, lumpy amphibian.
‘You can keep the change,’ Cimmon said. Thunder shivered in the distance. The bunyip sniggered – or it could have been anything.