Chapter 3 - Echoes of Distant Lands
The week leading up to market day began early each morning, the crisp Welsh air seeping through the cracks of Clary's old house, carrying the scent of moss and wood smoke. Tol had grown used to the rhythm of the days, though it left him with sore hands and aching shoulders. Potion-making, he quickly learned, was as much about precision as it was about endurance.
"Come on, boy! Those roots won't chop themselves," Clary called from the garage, his voice cutting through the stillness of dawn. Tol, already seated at the workbench, grabbed the knife and began slicing through a thick, knotted piece of mandrake root. The texture was strange—like trying to cut through a dense piece of meat with fibrous veins running through it.
"I'm on it," Tol muttered, concentrating. Every slice had to be uniform, Clary had said, or the potency of the potion could be thrown off.
Clary, bustling about with a mortar and pestle in hand, glanced over his shoulder. "You're gettin' better at that," he said. "First day, you couldn't even hold the knife steady."
Tol snorted but didn't look up. "Yeah, well, first day you didn't tell me the knife was enchanted to be heavier than it looks."
Clary chuckled, shaking his head. "A test of strength and patience, my boy. Two things you're gonna need if you're stickin' with me."
The garage, filled with the mingling aromas of crushed herbs, simmering brews, and charred wood, had become the center of their world for the week. Tol worked tirelessly beside Clary, learning the art of potion-making by doing rather than listening. Clary's method of teaching was direct: "Do it wrong, and you'll smell it before you see it."
There was little room for error. Cauldrons bubbled over open flames, some emitting gentle wisps of green smoke, others glowing faintly with enchanted heat. Shelves lined the walls, packed with jars labeled in Clary's untidy scrawl: powdered unicorn horn, dried nettles, essence of belladonna. The sheer variety overwhelmed Tol at first, but as the days passed, he found a strange satisfaction in recognizing the different ingredients by scent or texture.
"How many potions do we need for market day, exactly?" Tol asked one afternoon, wiping sweat from his brow. His arms ached from hours of grinding beetle shells into a fine powder.
Clary paused, scratching his beard as he counted on his fingers. "Twenty vials of Skele-Gro, ten bottles of Invigoration Draught, a dozen Pepper-Up Potions, and… hmm… oh, right, that special commission for the caravaneers. They'll want fireproofing salve. Hippogriffs ain't fond of burns."
"That's a lot," Tol said, leaning back against the counter.
"You think that's bad? You should've seen the orders back when I was supplying half the wizarding clinics in Wales," Clary said with a grin. "Had to brew through the night sometimes. But market day's different. It's not just about the potions—it's about people. Connections. Stories."
"Stories?" Tol asked, curious.
Clary nodded, his expression softening. "Aye. You'll see. Market day ain't just a chance to sell; it's where the world feels a bit smaller. Travelers from all over, swapping tales while trading goods. And the caravaneers… now they're a sight. Their wagons alone could tell you a hundred stories."
Tol felt a flicker of excitement. He'd heard Clary mention market day before, but this was the first time he'd sensed the weight of it. The idea of travelers and their tales stirred something inside him, a longing to see beyond the quiet routine of potion-making.
By midweek, the garage resembled a chaotic workshop. The air hung heavy with the mingled smells of sulfur, mint, and something sour Tol couldn't place. Tol's hands were stained green from dicing flobberworm mucus sacs, and he'd gotten so used to the rhythmic chopping and grinding that it felt almost meditative.
"Why do we have to label everything?" Tol asked, sticking a handwritten tag onto a bottle of golden-hued potion.
Clary gave him a sideways glance. "Because if we didn't, you might accidentally drink the wrong thing, and I'd have to explain to Dumbledore why you're sprouting feathers instead of hair."
"Fair point," Tol said, though he grimaced at the thought.
One evening, as they bottled the last batch of fireproofing salve, Clary leaned against the counter and stretched his back with an exaggerated groan.
"There. That's the last of it," he said, wiping his hands on his apron. "Tomorrow we'll load the cart, and before you know it, you'll be soaking up the sights and sounds of the market."
Tol set down a jar and looked at Clary. "What's it really like? The market, I mean."
Clary's eyes twinkled. "Loud. Busy. Smells like fresh bread, roasted chestnuts, and too many people wearing too much cologne. You'll see kids chasing enchanted toys, vendors shouting over each other, and the caravaneers… well, let's just say they'll steal the show. You'll be glad you came."
For the first time in days, Tol felt a rush of anticipation. The week had been grueling, but there was something about Clary's description that made him feel like he was on the verge of something extraordinary. As he climbed into bed that night, his arms heavy with exhaustion, he couldn't help but wonder what stories the market would hold for him.
The night before market day, the garage was finally silent after a long day of preparation. Tol slumped into his chair near the workbench, rubbing his sore arms. Outside, the crisp night air carried the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a nocturnal bird. Clary leaned against a counter, a satisfied grin on his face as he wiped his hands on a cloth.
"That's the last of 'em for the week," Clary announced, gesturing to the rows of neatly labeled potions lined up on the shelves. "Come tomorrow, these babies will be gone, and our pockets will be a little heavier."
Tol smiled faintly, though exhaustion was beginning to cloud his thoughts. Just as Clary opened his mouth to say something else, a soft tapping came from the small window near the garage ceiling. Both of them looked up, and there, illuminated by the moonlight, was a snowy owl with piercing amber eyes.
"Looks like you've got mail," Clary said, pushing off the counter. He opened the door, and the owl swooped inside, landing gracefully on the workbench in front of Tol. It extended its leg, where a neatly tied parchment bore Pippa's familiar handwriting.
Tol's heart leapt. "It's from Pippa," he said quietly, untying the letter. The owl hooted softly, waiting patiently as he unfolded the parchment.
He read aloud, his voice soft but steady:
Dear Tol,
I hope this letter finds you well and thriving. I've been thinking about you and how you're adjusting to life in the countryside. Clary is a good man, and I'm sure he's keeping you busy. Potioneering is no small task, but I have no doubt you'll rise to the occasion, you always do.
I wanted to wish you the best of luck at the market tomorrow. Remember to trust yourself, stay safe, and take in the experience. These little moments will shape you more than you realize.
Please give my regards to Clary. I trust he's looking after you as well as he promised he would.
Take care of yourself, Tol. You're stronger than you think.
Warm regards,
Pippa
Tol folded the letter carefully, his chest tightening with a mix of emotions. It was comforting to hear from her, even if only through parchment.
"Well, I'll be," Clary said, crossing his arms with a grin. "She hasn't forgotten me after all. Smart lady, that one."
Tol nodded, placing the letter gently on the workbench. "She's always been looking out for me."
The owl hooted again, as if to remind them of its presence. Clary chuckled and rummaged through a jar on the counter, pulling out a treat for the bird. "Here you go, feathered friend. And send our thanks back to her."
The owl nipped the treat delicately, then took off into the night, its wings gliding silently through the air.
Clary clapped Tol on the back. "Well, boy, looks like you've got someone rooting for you. Now let's get some rest. Tomorrow's gonna be a long day."
As Tol lay in bed that night, the letter tucked safely in his pocket, he thought of Pippa's words. They felt like a tether to his past, but also a push toward the future. Her belief in him meant more than he could put into words.
Outside, the stars sparkled like scattered diamonds, and Tol fell asleep dreaming of what the market might bring.
Tol awoke to the faint blue of predawn light filtering through his window. The chill in the room was sharp, biting at his skin the moment he pushed back the blanket. He shivered, pulling on his clothes as quickly as he could before heading downstairs. The kitchen was dark and cold, but Clary was already up, humming tunelessly as he stirred a steaming mug of coffee.
"Morning," Clary greeted without looking up. He tossed a slice of bread onto the table. "Eat quick. We've got a long day ahead of us."
Tol bit into the bread as they worked silently, packing the cart with crates of potions. The glass bottles clinked softly as Clary tucked straw around them for protection. Outside, the air was frigid, and the ground was damp with dew. Mist clung low to the earth, wrapping around the trees like a ghostly shroud.
The world was still, save for the occasional call of an early bird. Tol could see his breath puffing out in small clouds as they worked.
Clary straightened, brushing his hands on his coat. "Right, that's everything. Let's get moving before the best spots are taken."
Tol nodded, taking his place beside Clary as they grabbed the cart's handles. The wheels creaked faintly as they began the walk down the narrow dirt path leading to the village.
The horizon was a faint glow, the sun barely waking. Shadows of the hills stretched long and dark, and the trees stood like sentinels, their branches bare against the winter sky. Tol's boots crunched softly on the frosty grass at the edges of the path, and his fingers ached from the cold despite being shoved into his coat pockets.
"Now, let me tell you," Clary began, his voice breaking the stillness, "the last time I got to the market late, they stuck me right next to old Glyn with his cabbage stew stand. Spent the whole day smelling like boiled socks."
Tol stifled a laugh, glancing at Clary, who had a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"You think I'm joking?" Clary huffed. "I couldn't get the smell out of my coat for weeks. Never again. That's why we're out here before the bloody sun."
Tol smiled, his breath fogging up as he exhaled. "Do you think it'll be busy today?"
Clary grunted. "Always is. Folk love a market day, good excuse to get out of the house, see what everyone else is selling. Not to mention, caravaneers are stopping through this week. That alone'll pack the square."
They walked in companionable silence for a while, the village slowly coming into view. Its rooftops peeked out from the mist, and smoke from early morning fires spiraled lazily into the sky. A rooster crowed in the distance, and faint sounds of life began to stir.
"Almost there," Clary muttered, tugging the cart along a bump in the road. "Just you wait, Tol. Market day's got a magic of its own. Keep your eyes open, you'll see."
Tol's grip tightened on the cart handle as the village square drew closer, his heart picking up with a mix of nerves and anticipation.
As Tol and Clary pulled their cart into the village square, the mist still hung heavy in the crisp morning air. The cobblestones beneath their boots glistened with dew, and the faint sound of chatter drifted on the breeze as other vendors began to set up their stalls. The square, bordered by old stone buildings with ivy creeping up their walls, felt alive despite the early hour, its magic brewing like the day itself.
Tol's eyes darted around, trying to take it all in. To his left, an enchanted food stall burst into action as its owner waved a wand, causing a display of pastries to hover and twirl in midair. The warm, buttery scent of fresh-baked goods drifted over, and Tol's stomach growled softly in response.
A little further along, a potion-maker was setting up her table, muttering spells under her breath as cauldrons bubbled behind her stall. Her array of shimmering vials caught the morning light, creating tiny rainbows that flickered across the cobblestones.
Across the square, a charm-seller hung strings of glittering trinkets that jingled like wind chimes whenever he moved. Tol watched as he demonstrated a glowing necklace to a curious villager, the amulet casting a golden warmth over their faces.
The clang of metal drew his attention to a blacksmith at the far edge of the square. Sparks flew as the smith enchanted a sword, the blue flames licking the blade dancing unnaturally in the dim light. The rhythmic sound of hammering and the hiss of steam seemed to punctuate the lively murmur of the square.
"Here," Clary grumbled, steering the cart to an open spot along the edge of the square. "This'll do. Decent foot traffic, and we're not near anyone stinkin' up the place." He cast a pointed glance toward a stall selling enchanted fish pies, making Tol smirk.
They worked quickly to unload the cart, setting out bottles of shimmering potions in neat rows. Clary adjusted a sign that read "Potions for Every Purpose" in bold, swirling script. Tol followed his lead, carefully lining up vials and jars, each labeled with tidy handwriting that described their contents: Wound-Healing Elixir, Energy Draught, Calming Tonic.
By the time they were done, the square had come alive. Children darted between stalls, laughing as they chased each other with enchanted toys that whizzed and chirped in the air. Villagers haggled loudly with vendors, their voices rising and falling in a chaotic symphony. A woman in a wide-brimmed hat argued with a wand-maker, gesturing emphatically toward a wand that seemed to spark in protest.
Tol took it all in, wide-eyed. The sheer variety of sights, sounds, and smells was overwhelming yet fascinating. There was a distinct energy in the air, a blend of magic and mundane life weaving seamlessly together.
"You're gawking," Clary teased, nudging Tol's shoulder. "Don't let anyone think it's your first market day. Bad for business."
Tol flushed and turned his attention back to their stall. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize, kid." Clary chuckled. "Just watch. Market day's more than a chance to sell—it's where you learn things. Listen carefully, and you'll hear half the gossip in the countryside. And always keep an eye out for a good deal."
Tol nodded, his curiosity rekindled as he glanced around again. He couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement. This was a world he hadn't known before, a place buzzing with life, opportunity, and secrets waiting to be uncovered.
The hum of market chatter stilled as a distant sound filled the air—a rhythmic beating, like the pulse of a great heart. Tol looked up sharply, scanning the skies. The morning light glinted off something far above, dazzling his eyes. Then, like an orchestra building to a crescendo, the sound of wings grew louder, and the sparkle in the sky became shapes: carts pulled by sleek, powerful hippogriffs, their feathers shimmering gold, silver, and russet in the light.
Hundreds of them descended in a formation that was both majestic and practical, the air alive with the rush of wind and the calls of the beasts. Tol's jaw dropped as he took in the sight: carts of all sizes and shapes, enchanted to hover with a strange buoyancy as the hippogriffs pulled them with ease. Some were laden with goods—silks billowing in the breeze, crates of exotic fruits, and barrels that clinked musically.
The guards came next, riding broomsticks with shields strapped to their backs and wands drawn, their eyes scanning the marketplace below for any sign of trouble. Every one of them looked alert, their postures straight and confident, as if they'd done this a hundred times before.
But what struck Tol most was the people. The aircaravaneers were a vibrant tapestry of races, ages, and cultures. There were tall, lean elves with braided hair and sharp eyes, weather-worn humans with sun-darkened skin and hearty laughs, and even a few goblins riding along, barking orders at their beasts. A towering giant lumbered out of one cart, carefully unloading barrels twice the size of a man, while a witch in rich purple robes waved her wand to guide her cargo onto a floating platform.
Tol could barely breathe as the first hippogriffs touched down on the nearby landing ground, their claws scraping against the packed earth. Steam rose from their flaring nostrils as their handlers quickly moved in, unstrapping their harnesses and leading them to troughs of water set up by the villagers. The beasts drank deeply, their beaks snapping with sharp, rhythmic clicks.
The merchants poured from their carts like a flood, their voices rising as they called out greetings to one another and shouted orders to their guards and handlers. Tol caught snippets of conversation in languages he didn't recognize, their cadences musical and strange. He saw one man dressed in layered robes patterned with stars and moons hand a parcel to another wrapped in vibrant, silken scarves, their hands clasping briefly in what seemed like a shared understanding.
"What are you staring at, boy?" Clary asked, his tone teasing but his grin soft.
"Everything," Tol admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes never left the scene. "They're... incredible."
Clary chuckled. "First time seeing an aircaravaneer landing, eh? It's a sight, all right. But don't let the sparkle fool you. They're tough folk, and this life ain't easy."
Tol nodded, but his amazement didn't dim. He watched as a group of merchants, led by a broad-shouldered woman with a thick braid of silver hair, began dispersing into the marketplace. The guards dismounted their broomsticks, some lingering near the carts while others began to patrol the square.
The villagers had gathered near the landing site, their cheers echoing as the aircaravaneers spread out. Children clapped and pointed at the hippogriffs, while a few bolder souls tried to inch closer, only to be gently shooed away by the handlers. The beasts, though powerful and proud, seemed calm as they drank and ruffled their feathers.
Tol's gaze swept over the scene again, lingering on the vibrant colors, the cacophony of voices, and the sheer scale of it all. It was as though a piece of the world had come to this little village, bringing with it the promise of adventure, stories, and magic.
The marketplace buzzed with activity as the aircaravaneers mingled with the villagers. Clary had already begun negotiating with a group of merchants near their stall, his deep voice carrying over the hum of voices. Tol stood nearby, arms full of potion vials, watching the exchange unfold.
"These'll keep your beasts going for weeks," Clary said, tapping one of the large gallon-sized potion bottles. "Potion's concentrated—don't let anyone else water it down, or your hippogriffs'll keel over halfway to your next stop."
The merchant, a sharp-eyed elf with silver hair tied into an intricate knot, nodded approvingly. "And the price?"
"Fair," Clary replied with a grin that hinted he'd get the better end of the deal.
As Clary and the merchant haggled, Tol found himself distracted by snippets of conversation around him. Two goblin traders nearby argued over a map, pointing at what looked like a treacherous mountain range. Another merchant recounted a journey across a vast desert where enchanted sandstorms had forced their caravan to retreat for days. The tales painted a vivid picture of a magical world Tol had never imagined.
While he carried another crate of potions to the caravan carts, a voice stopped him. "Need a hand with that, kid?"
Tol looked up to see a young man standing nearby. He was about twenty, with warm, tan skin and sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He wore a Vietnamese straw hat tilted slightly to the side, its wide brim shading his face. A vest made of dragon scales covered his torso, the dark material shimmering faintly under the sun like liquid metal. His right hand held a shield engraved with intricate patterns, while a crossbow hung on his back, a sack of bolts strapped securely beside it.
"You don't look like you're from around here," the man said with a grin, leaning casually on his shield.
"I could say the same about you," Tol replied, setting down the crate.
The man laughed. "Fair enough. I'm Bao. Guard for this lot. Been traveling with them for the past few years—though I started in Inner China."
"Inner China?" Tol's eyes widened. "That's... far."
"About as far as it gets," Bao said, his grin softening into something more reflective. "It's a long way from home, but you see the world this way. Magical deserts, cursed forests, dragon-infested mountain passes... You'd be surprised how much is out there."
Tol's curiosity burned. "What's it like? The magical world outside of Britain, I mean?"
Bao leaned on his shield, clearly enjoying the question. "Different everywhere you go. In China, we've got our own Ministry, sure, but the magic there's older. The villages are tied to the land, the spirits, the rivers. Here, everything feels... well, organized in comparison. Except maybe out here in the countryside." He glanced toward Clary, who was still arguing over prices with the elf. "Out here feels freer. Closer to the roots of things."
"Is that why you left?" Tol asked, emboldened by Bao's openness.
Bao shrugged. "Part of it. Sometimes, the politics back home get too heavy. Sometimes, you just want to see what's beyond the horizon."
Their conversation was interrupted by Clary's voice. "Tol! Stop jawing and help load the potions."
Bao chuckled. "Duty calls. Nice meeting you, Tol. Maybe I'll see you on the road someday." With that, he tipped his straw hat and walked away, his shield gleaming in the sunlight.
Later, as they packed up their stall, Tol turned to Clary. "Why haven't I heard of these caravaneers before? Not in London, at least."
Clary paused, wiping his hands on his coat. "London's Ministry doesn't much care for what's outside their walls. Aircaravaneers don't fit into their neat little system—too independent, too wild. Out here, in the Welsh countryside, things are different. We've got our own way of doing things, our own rules. The villages are more like a federation—each with its own voice, but all looking out for each other."
Tol frowned. "And the Ministry doesn't interfere?"
Clary snorted. "They try, now and then. But they've got enough on their plates without worrying about us. Besides, the countryside's not easy to control. Too much magic in the land itself, too many folk who know how to disappear when they need to."
Tol considered this, his mind swirling with everything he'd seen and heard that day. The aircaravaneers, Bao's stories, the bustling market—it all felt like a glimpse into a larger, more complex world. For the first time, he wondered if he might one day step beyond the boundaries of this little village and see it for himself.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the market square, the aircaravaneers prepared for their grand departure. Merchants moved with practiced efficiency, securing their enchanted carts to the waiting hippogriffs, who pawed at the ground, their feathered wings twitching in anticipation. Guards checked their gear—broomsticks, shields, crossbows, and wands at the ready—while handlers whispered soothing words to their beasts.
The once-bustling market quieted as villagers gathered to watch the spectacle. Tol stood among them, his heart pounding with excitement. The air seemed charged with magic, the kind that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
With a synchronized motion, the hippogriffs spread their wings, and one by one, the carts lifted into the air. Sunlight caught on the carts' enchanted surfaces, making them glimmer like jewels against the fading sky. The sound of wings filled the air, a rhythmic whooshing that seemed to echo in Tol's chest.
As the last cart ascended, its lanterns casting a warm glow over the crowd, Tol felt a surge of longing. The aircaravaneers disappeared into the distance, leaving only a faint shimmer in the sky and a quiet that settled like a heavy blanket over the village.
The walk back to the garage was silent but not unpleasant. Tol and Clary pulled the now-empty cart together, their steps crunching against the gravel road. The evening air was crisp, and the stars were beginning to pierce the darkening sky.
When they reached the garage, they unloaded the cart, placing it neatly in its corner. Clary dusted off his hands and stretched, letting out a long sigh before plopping into a chair by the small workbench. He beckoned Tol over with a wave of his hand.
"Come here, boy," Clary said, pulling a worn leather pouch from his coat pocket. It jingled softly as he loosened the drawstring, spilling out a handful of coins in various shapes, sizes, and materials. Tol leaned closer, eyes widening at the sight of the foreign currencies—round, square, and hexagonal pieces that shimmered in colors he couldn't name.
Clary chuckled, picking up a small, silver-edged coin. "This one's from the Northern Reaches. Paid for a tonic by a man who swore his dragon hatchling wouldn't eat anything but sheep guts." He set it down and grabbed a gold-plated coin etched with a phoenix. "And this—Inner China. Got it from a guard for a special salve after his arm got burned by one of their enchanted winds."
Tol listened intently, fascinated by the stories tied to each coin. Finally, Clary reached for five galleons and pressed them into Tol's palm. "Not much," he said, his gruff tone softening, "but you worked hard today. Work harder, learn more, and you'll earn better."
Tol looked down at the coins in his hand, their weight both literal and symbolic. "Thank you," he said quietly, slipping them into his pocket.
But his thoughts were elsewhere. The memory of the aircaravaneers lifting into the sky lingered in his mind like an unfinished melody. The stories Bao had shared, the sights of the day, and the boundless possibilities of the magical world beyond the Welsh countryside—it all felt like a call to something greater.
As Clary lit his pipe and stared into the night, Tol remained quiet, lost in the flicker of lantern light and the dreams of far-off places waiting just beyond the horizon.