No one’s apprentice
The brooms march effortlessly
their line stretch, over mountain and sand.
bringing water in their buckets from the great river, that flows thousands of miles away.
their bristles, as they rasp the thirsty ground, clear smooth dusty paths that others walk, sone hitch my brooms to wagons. but tgey are not tamable beadt and walk.only on this mountain highway.
some travellers upon the new road chop them to pieces, but they grow back, those hewn branches, what they didn't burn for kindling.
but it matters not. a loss of one broom means naught. i've broken many myself and burned even more, until i learned the word the sorcerer would not teach me to utter; the one needful to bring the brooms to a halt.
ney, try as i might, he muttered his spells.
l caught the activation chant, but struggled with the strange freezing cast.
but his drowning words were loud enough to finally hear: a small sacrifice to pay, i should think, to learn the magic chant of halting: Cattywampus .
now i can start or stop, my wooden servants are never again unleashed uncontrolably as once they did. i can make entire trees carry wine casks full of water instead of measly buckets, but small brooms are best, i've found. they walk faster, and are not as intimidating to the superstitious locals. oh, yes, those backwards hayseeds feared the army of brooms that i commanded. they called it devil's work. little did they know that it all was for their own prosperity! no one is complaining that they now have glacier water in the sun.
lakes upon lakes i filled so far, drawing upon the magic spell, bringing greenary to the wastes. i draw the water, teaching the brooms the path, as we march up the hills and down the valleys, across snow and bracken. the brooms never forget the path, they teach the way through their very fibers.
some day, i dream it, i will bring fresh waves to innundate all the deathly sand dunes on this world. the entire world shall be an oasis. and my army of brooms shall maintain its lush grouth forever.