plucked the slurpee off Evan’s tray with long boney fingers. He peered deep into its sugary murk.
“Explain this foul potion. What are its effects?”
“It’s called a slurpee,” Evan said. “It’s a refreshing drink. Especially when it’s hot out.”
A round of knowing ahhhhhs circled the room. “A health elixir,” someone spoke from the back, nodding with authority.
“Well, sort of.”
Falstaff sniffed it.
“Drink it! Drink it! Drink it!” the wizards began to chant.
Falstaff raised his hand. “Silence!” he commanded. “For the sake of knowledge, and in the name of magic, I shall submit to this offensive brew…” He turned to Evan darkly, “…but if it be trickery, your fate shall be sealed.”
Falstaff drew the straw cautiously to his mouth, batted at it with his tongue, then chewed on it.
“You…you gotta suck on it,” Evan offered, hoping wizards weren’t allergic to sugar or whatever gave the drink its toxic color.
“Suck?”
Evan could only make the motion with his lips, the rest of his body still sluggish from the freezing spell, and Falstaff, catching on, began to draw the liquid up. Evan watched it climb, like red in a thermometer, until it burst through. Falstaff’s eyes lit up like revelations. Liquid raced back down the straw as Falstaff’s lips popped off. He stared at the drink in wonder.
“By the gods!” he cried. “I feel vitality surging through my loins!”
“Let us try! Let us try!” the rest chanted.
Evan’s brew was passed around until all wizards had sampled and none was left. A good quarter-hour was then spent in exuberant debate over the ‘foul-potion’s’ many qualities. They seemed to have entirely forgotten that Evan was there.
Finally, after a short, whispered huddle, they declared through Falstaff: “Evan the Youthful! Your primary charge, as Newling Apprentice, with full duties yet to be described, is to bring for each of us, on every day, one of your health elixirs, so that we may continue to grow strong and maintain our energies.”
Excerpted from The Wizards’ Attic.
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