We began as brothers, twins actually. But whether it was fate or destiny or the grand design of a man who was extremely skilled at his craft, the paths we would follow would soon diverge.
I remember the day vividly. No, not the weather nor the events in the Daily Prophet. I remember the workshop of the Wandmaker. The room was cramped and dimly lit. The light of a few flickering candles glimmered off the miniscule specks of wood dust which drifted through the air and permeated the room with the soothing scent of fresh cut trees. Trees. A handful of branches from various kinds of trees sat on the floor in the far corner. Ash. Elder. Hawthorn. Elm. Willow. Vine. A pile of discarded clippings to many, but to the master craftsman, each had its own purpose and beauty.
We had always been identical. Brilliant flame red from one end to the other. Soft like silk. Magical from birth. Plucked from the most glorious bird one could imagine by a Wizard of similar measure.
I watched through the dimness of the workshop as the Wandmaker carefully selected a holly branch from the assortment of limbs and twigs. From atop his work table, he lifted an old blade, worn from years upon years of use, and began his work. He carefully cleaned the branch of the remnants of what had once adorned it: the shiny emerald leaves and round crimson berries which have long been a symbol of hope to mankind through the cold, barren months of winter. I watched in amazement as he carved away the thin layer of bark and began skillfully whittling away at the wood until he saw in his hand the exact shape of his mind’s design. He sanded and smoothed it, making the wood more perfect with each gentle motion. He then picked up an oil soaked rag and stroked the bit of holly, rubbing the solution into its surface to strengthen it, protect it. His creation was a thing to behold. Eleven inches. Smooth and even. Simple. Unassuming. Yet lovely.
With a warm pride in his eyes, the Wandmaker gently rolled the bit of holly between his fingers, admiring the beauty of his handiwork. His old chair creaked as he rose, placed the thin piece of wood on his workbench, and lifted me up off the narrow shelf in front of him. Soon he was holding me firmly against the holly. With his free hand, he pulled his wand from his pocket, pointed it directly at me, and began to chant a most unusual incantation. I had heard plenty of spells in my numerous lifetimes, but this one was like none I had heard before. The Wandmaker repeated the same words time and again in a melodious rhythm that seemed to entrance me, envelop me. A luminous glow surrounded me, and it was over. The holly and I were one. The Wandmaker had joined us, the Phoenix feather and the holly, the symbol of rebirth and new beginnings with the symbol of life and hope. The moment was indescribable. I was now a wand. Once a tail feather that gave lift and balance to a glorious bird, I now had a new purpose. I would one day belong to a Wizard, and I would be the tool by which he could perform great magic, marvelous, wondrous magic just like the Wizard I had watched from the Phoenix’s perch for so many years.
The Wandmaker’s eyes glistened, and his countenance beamed with pride. He was well pleased with his new creation. As was I. How blessed to be used for something so important! It was an honor above all others. As the work-worn Wizard returned me to the small shelf above the workbench, I rejoined my brother. I was elated. He lay there in silence. The Wandmaker cupped his tired hand around each of the flames in the tiny space, and blew them out one by one, leaving the workshop in complete darkness as he closed the door behind him and shuffled off to bed.
The following morning, the early sun peeked through a small window, casting feeble shadows across the tiny room. The Wandmaker was already working, diligently sifting through the pile of branches which sat in the corner. He held the branches in turn, running his fingers along them, studying them carefully… for what I did not know. After much deliberation, the Wizard stood up, turned his head toward the door to the garden, and paused. –I wonder …†he began. But the rest of his thought never reached his tongue.
He grabbed an old cloak from the hook by the door, pulled a woolen scarf around his neck, and made his way into the garden. The wind whistled gently into the workshop as the Wandmaker exited, causing the door to remain ajar just enough for me to watch the master craftsman at work once again. He plucked a branch from a stack of yew trimmings which he kept outside against the wall of the workshop well away from the other branches so as not to poison the rest of the limbs with the oil from the yew. The Wizard pulled the scarf around his face, protecting himself less from the chill of the air than from the dangers of the poisonous yew dust, and propped himself atop a bit of moss-covered log, which seemed to double nicely for a bench from which to whittle and carve yet another masterpiece.
Shaking the dust from his cloak, the Wandmaker returned to his workshop and shut the door which had been letting the cold air draft inside for hours. He placed the yew on his workbench and rested in front of the fire, using its warmth to draw the bit of trembling from his tired hands. I don’t know why the Wandmaker chose to work with the yew that day. I remember the unsettled feeling I had with the yew resting so close to me. Why would he choose to handle such a dangerous wood? The yew was poison, the Tree of Death. How many times had he created wands of yew? Were they safe to use? They must be. This was the Wandmaker. This was his craft. As I contemplated these things, I watched as the craftsman picked up the yew and began stroking the length of it with a beautiful oil, tenderly working the protective substance into the wood. I was amazed once again at the Wandmaker’s skill. Thirteen and one half inches. So different from the holly yet another work of art.
And just as I had nearly convinced myself that the yew in the magical hands of the Wandmaker was completely innocuous, he did the unthinkable. The Wizard held the yew in one hand…and plucked the other red phoenix feather from the narrow shelf above the workbench. Not my brother! No, not him! But there was nothing I could do. The sonorous incantation from the Wandmaker filled the workshop as it had the previous evening, yet it did not bring to me the same satisfying warmth. My brother was a wand. Phoenix feather and yew. The symbol of rebirth and new beginnings together with the Tree of Death? At first this seemed illogical. But after much thought, it occurred to me that aside from being poisonous, the yew was the longest living tree in all the land, capable of living thousands of years. Tree of Death? Yes. But also a symbol of immortality. This must have been what the master Wandmaker was thinking.
In the dark stillness of the night, my brother and I lay next to each other on the little shelf above the workbench. Twin feathers, born and reborn together with the majestic Phoenix so many times over the centuries. Now wands. And though our paths were diverging after all these years, we would be brothers… always.