Splash of Color

Iora glanced up at the neon sign of the dojo Marge had directed her to this morning. She grabbed the glass door and pulled, stepping into the cool room. It boasted one long, matted room. On the walls were staffs of every length and size.

“Can I help you?” asked a man who looked as strong as a twig. He was only four feet tall at most and thin as a rail but his voice carried like thunder over a mountain.

Iora stepped up. “Yes, I represent the Eastern tribe of Mahaad. We are in dire need of assistance. Our leader led us to you. Some goblin men have been attacking the coven and our leader has decided we must learn to fight back with strength, not only magic Are you a master?”

The man scratched his long beard and sighed. Yes, of the staff. I’m assuming that is what you search for witchling?

Iora nodded sending her short brown bob into disarray.

“It has been a while since your coven has needed me. I shall assist.”

Iora smiled and shook his hand. “My name is Iora Madeeb. We can use or Matriarche’s ring magic to get us to the coven faster.”

The master nodded and Iora took out a small red ring and placed it on the master’s finger. He twisted it and disappeared leaving her behind and shamed, that her magic hadn’t been strong enough to ring travel both to the coven. Well, she could always hail a cab.

Iora led her new companion up the rocky incline. He had no problems climbing the hill with his staff. The gates to the coven were alight to warn others off. They were decorated with the symbols of their goddess Mahaad and all her familiars. A lion, A cobra, and a rabbit. It was the coven’s pride and joy. Iora led the master past the gates to the big cavern that had been cleaned out for such training. There Marge and six other witchlings were levitating mattresses across the rocky ground.

“I brought him!” she cried hopping towards her leader. Marge was a tall, robust woman that wore bug glasses and a pinafore over her sweatpants and shirt. Marge glanced from supervising the witchlings and sighed. “Not the one, Iora. But in our time of need, he will do.”

Iora felt the shame of failing once more.

“Come, let us begin the subtle art of staff-wielding,” said the master as he stood beside Iora.

It was soon obvious that the witchlings would rather learn to fly a broom than learn to fight with one. All except Iora who poured her heart and soul into learning the techniques as best as she could. She was the big sister and it was her role to defend her coven should it come to it.

One day it did. Marge was busy teaching the witchlings their lessons on magic while Iora danced under a tree sweeping the leaves with her broom. The gate lights began to flicker, then their gate was blown open and goblin men from the mountains came storming in. Iora breathed in deeply before raising her broom and interfering with the goblin’s own walking sticks. A clack resounded. She pushed the ugly green men back and swept under their too-small feet, tripping them before raising her hand, and wand at the ready.

There was clapping as the master appeared slightly transparent. It was time for him to go. He had passed his lessons to a good student as he had wanted for a thousand years and now he could rest. He dissolved in smoke smiling widely. And Iora smiled back. She had for once not been a shame.