The Wand Maker

The Wand Maker

Roderick McCrory, a forty-five-year-old Scotsman with fiery red hair, thick sideburns, and piercing green eyes, meticulously worked in his dimly lit Edinburgh shop. The air hung thick with the scent of sawdust and woodsmoke. For generations, the McCrorys had crafted wands for the city's witches, a secret trade passed down through his family. Each wand was a unique creation, perfectly matched to its owner. Roderick, following tradition, would take a tiny drop of blood from the witch's finger, infusing it into the heartwood of oak or birch, binding the witch's essence to the wand. His tools, old and worn, lay scattered across the workbench – chisels, knives, and smoothing stones, each bearing testament to years of dedicated craftsmanship. He hummed a low, almost mournful tune as he carefully shaped a piece of supple oak.

A young woman, Elara, nervously entered the shop. Her hair was pulled back severely, revealing a pale face framed by sharp cheekbones. She clutched a worn leather purse in her trembling hands. Roderick greeted her with a curt nod, his expression professional and unreadable. He explained the process, his voice low and steady, devoid of any overt emotion. Elara, though hesitant, offered her finger. Roderick carefully pricked it with a sterilized needle, collecting the precious drop of blood. The air was silent save for the gentle scrape of his tools against the wood as he worked. The process felt intensely personal, a tangible link forged between the witch and her magical instrument. He worked with focused precision, his movements almost hypnotic in their rhythm and purpose. He was creating more than just a wand; he was creating a conduit for magic.

Once finished, Roderick presented Elara with her wand – a slender piece of polished oak, imbued with her life force. "Remember," he cautioned, his voice grave, "misuse of magic leads to a tainted wand and, eventually, a haggard appearance. Use your powers wisely." Elara took the wand, her fingers tracing its smooth surface, a mixture of awe and apprehension evident in her eyes. She nodded silently, understanding the weight of responsibility entrusted to her. She paid Roderick, thanked him curtly, and left the shop, the newly crafted wand carefully tucked away in her purse. Roderick watched her go, then turned back to his workbench, already contemplating the design for his next creation, the legacy of the McCrorys continuing into another generation.