Thomas

A story of a wizard and the spells we cast

A quiet town, Welltino, sat at the foot of Mt. Gilga. Every seven years for centuries on the summer solstice it happened — The Festival.

The name grated on the creative types who, once in a while, renamed it. Their efforts wasted. No matter the signage, marketing and advertising, the T-shirt vendors who ignored them were rewarded in sales of “THE FESTIVAL.” This has been a crime creatives everywhere have suffered when something in their opinion lacks imagination and creativity. And it has gone on longer than The Festival and as long as children like Mary have asked their parents the why’s and how’s of the world; in this case, anything to do with The Festival. And for as long as parents have existed, one parent tells the child to ask the other parent. It drove Mary crazy, especially since this time her parents were chosen to host the wizard of Mt. Gilga, Tom. Everyone, especially the creatives, thought Tom needed to have a more wizard sounding name, but Tom it was and is.

Her Mom could not figure out the best room for Tom to stay in and Mary’s father, since the first of the month, moved furniture from one room to another. The seventeenth marked Tom’s arrival, affirmed with a knock at the door. Mary’s mother, caught between rooms, blamed Roger for not having it ready. “Which room Bets?,” her father said, knowing full well whichever room he picked was the wrong one.

“Men!, just pick one for god’s sake.” Mary’s mother declared as her demeanor shifted to a role one has when a dignitary, royalty or in this case Tom stays in your home.

Mary stood next to her Mom as she opened the door, and if a wizard with the name of Tom wasn’t what one expects of wizard names, he didn’t look like one either except Mary noticed he shimmered. He wore a motorcycle jacket, Sub Pop records T-shirt, Levis with a few different paint colors on them, and pink Converse high tops. He didn’t even have long grey hair or a beard like wizards are supposed to.

The shimmer caught Mary’s attention, but his eyes startled her. She could not figure out the color because they changed with sparkles of gold. He didn’t have a staff, wand or any other wizard accessories and then he spoke, “Hello Beatrice and Mary. Thank you for putting me up for The Festival. It is still called The Festival? One can never be sure, and I don’t wish to antagonize anyone.” This wizard didn’t need accessories because his words were staff and wand. Love, compassion and calm power filled her. Tension left her Mom and Mary thought she saw a tear. The beauty of love can do that.

The days until the solstice, Tom was a ghost. He left the house before anyone woke and returned after she went to bed. When was she ever going to ask Tom her questions? The source of Mary’s pout. Her parents remained elusive to her questions and the day after Tom’s arrival, they were consumed with the most important task — their lists.

The entire festival was about the lists. The week before, Jerry, the town mechanic, whose festival job was for people to draw a number, stopped by the house. Mary wasn’t supposed to know, but she saw her Mom drew a 3 and Dad 352. The number was anonymous, and not even Jerry knew. Her Mom was aflutter because a low number meant everyone will read her list. Mary knew it was anonymous, so she wasn’t sure why her Mom was upset; it seemed silly, but the entire Festival did. When she asked her parents what the list is supposed to be they told her either she was too young to understand, it’s complicated, ask the other parent, we will have to talk about this later, or some other phrase consistent to parenthood tradition.

On the summer solstice, the town gathered in the square. At 6 pm sharp, Tom stood on the stage previously occupied by the band Betty Turbo Chasers, wearing the same clothes he arrived in. Light danced from his mouth with every word. He said little, but one part grabbed Mary. “For any here who wants the list of another as their own, it will be.” The only list Mary could think of was Santa Claus, but it’s June, she thought, more perplexed than ever. Tom’s remaining words were lost while she pondered, but she felt her Mom pull her hand towards The Woods.

Mary discovered the woodland path flanked by lists tacked to its trees. Neither of her parents stopped to read, but others did, although she noticed her Mom paid undo attention to the third one on the path. Most of the lists were written plainly, but a few were adorned. They were posted too high for Mary to read and when she asked her dad to lift her up, he told her it was against festival rules.

Once they finished the path, they made their way back to town. Another band, The Sweet Minies, took the stage while everyone sat down to a late evening meal. Mary was quite disappointed by The Festival. There wasn’t any cotton candy, rides, or anything her eight-year-old self considered fun.

At midnight, Tom returned to the stage. He spoke and the same thing happened; words uttered lights as he spoke. “Is there anyone here who wants to give up their list for another?” No one came forward. He bowed his head, put his hands together like he was going to dive, parted them to his side, and began circling them. The town gasped as every list flew over and burst into flames. To Mary, the sky was on fire. When she looked back to the stage, Tom vanished and in his place a pile of ashes.

They returned home to find a note from Tom thanking her parents for hosting him and a present for Mary, a stuffed bear. Exhausted, she took it up to her room, snuggled into bed with her last words for the day, “Good night Thomas.”

It wasn’t the softest or cutest stuffed animal she had, but it was her favorite and the only one she talked to anymore. A week after the Festival she went with friends to The Woods to find buried treasure. They found an old sock, rusty spoon, and a quarter, which the five of them were not sure how to divide. Mary ignored the debate because The Woods brought back questions about The Festival.

She returned home, knowing she needed to talk to Thomas. He sat on the floor across from her, set a cup of tea in front of him, and asked what the Festival is about- silence. She waited and asked again — silence. “Stupid bear,” but asked again except this time she added, “please.”

“Ahhhh, so you figured out the key.” The bear spoke, but not in the voice of Tom. “I am Talina, Mary, a spirit and yours if you wish. I will answer your questions.” And before Mary could utter a breath, Talina continued. “The Festival is about renewal and unification. Your parents and the town made lists of their pain, trauma, and sorrows. Tom reviews every list. People can hold back a thing or two even though it’s anonymous and when they do, he shows up at their house to hand their list back. After three-hundred years, people caught on and he doesn’t have to as often.”

“OK, but I still don’t understand why or why seven years.”

“As people get older, they store up pain, trauma, resentments and sorrows. Do you remember last year when Bisquit died how sad you were?”

Mary nodded, her face turned down, remembering how much she loved that cat.

“Once these reach a certain level, they grow over the person and it changes them from who they really are. It has its own voice, and it tells you that no one can understand, you are alone, no one has it as bad as you, its unfair and a lot of other thoughts and emotions that separate you from others. You could not read the lists, but there is no need because everyone is almost the same. Names, dates, places, events are different, but what they do to a person is the same. Some don’t always see this when they start on the path, but by the end, they see essence instead of specifics. Pain is pain. Trauma is trauma. And resentments hold fear. None of these can be measured.”

“But why seven years? Is it because it takes that long to reach that level you talked about?”

“Oh yes, you asked that. Sorry I got sidetracked, but you figured it out. The first three years after The Festival, people are vibrant, but life happens and after seven years it is time.”

“Has anyone ever taken another list?”

“It has happened a few times. Tom brings them on the stage, takes the list they want, and puts all the emotion, feeling, and thoughts behind the words through their body and then asks them if they still want it. None have!”

“What if they don’t have anything to put on the list?”

“Those happen and they turn in a blank list. If it really is blank, Tom knows it and discards it. These people have all the life stuff everyone else does, but through whatever means have been able to let it go. The pain, trauma, resentment and sorrow no longer live in their mind, body and spirit. And the next festival they may have experienced something they could not let go of. Even Tom has written a list now and then.”

It was Saturday, three days before The Festival and Mary’s sixth. Her husband, Dave, was all worked up over Tom staying at their house, but Mary wasn’t. She opened the door before Tom could knock. He looked the same as the five festivals before; Sub Pop T-shirt, black leather jacket, Levis with paint splashes. Except, this year green Converse high-tops. Her son Josh stood next to her, mouth agape in wonder at the shimmering human being.

Mary skipped the hello. “Do you think you could tone down the fire theatrics this year, Tom? Last time was a bit much.” She said with a grin.

“OK, but what if I turn them all into Phoenix’s that burst into flames and become doves? You know it’s my favorite part, Mary. Oh, and I hope you still have the bear. It looks like it’s going to have a new friend.”