The Apprentice and the Oasis

If only I wore some sturdier shoes for this trip. Master will morph me into some variety of amphibian if I return with naught but a pair of tattered old boots and the cloak on my back-- they are his, after all. Never has the desert been so hard to traverse. The winds whistling through these ruins just might be the death of me if I linger. What did Master think I would find here in the first place? All I see are pillars of stone and sand-covered tiles. It was a civilization beyond ancient, its weather-battered adobe dwellings long since picked clean of valuables by bandits long before the time of my grandparents' grandparents.

My gripes aside, the rocky frame of an open door soon appeared beyond the slicing windstorm. Mere paces away and about to topple from exhaustion, I take my chance with this first real shelter I have yet seen on my journey. The wind ceases to batter me as soon as I step inside. It is strangely cool and refreshing inside, if dusty. And dark. The sun was blocked out by the sandstorm, but at least I could see my past my nose out there.

Now how did that light spell go, again? What did Master call it? I clap my hands together and rub palm against palm. A short incantation and all I get are a few sparks.

My hands were too dusty. "Oh, come now." I wipe my hands on the inside of my sleeves and try again, this time eliciting a brief spark of yellow energy before a ball of light sits suspended between the fingers of my right hand.

The building was a workshop of some sort. Several work benches line the right wall with upturned containers of tools and materials sitting scattered across the floor. Not a single trinket of value seems to be left. Not a sign nor sigil on a wall remains that can tell me what sort of things they made in the past, but it suits my needs for the evening.

I take a step further inside, my little ball of light flickering with the movement, and wince as a needle of pain shrieks through my foot. Lifting my leg with a start and a swear, I see the sole of my boot has finally been breached. It seems the thick layer of dust and sand hid some shards of pottery on the floor. Blood drips down my heel in the golden light.

"Perfect," I mutter. Master hasn't yet gotten around to teaching me healing spells. In fact, the only other spells I know are battle-oriented ones I asked him to teach me.

Planting my rear on one of the work benches, I carefully remove my boot. Sand and grit is already packed around the wound, sending steady streams of pain through the limb. Careful as I can, I pick the grit out of the wound with my fingers. They are just as filthy as the floor, but what other choice do I have? Just need to bear with the pain for a while, wrap it up, and I can find somewhere to refill my waterskin in the morning to clean the wound.

A lump developed in my throat.

As if I will find water out in this desert. I ran out of the stuff yesterday and haven't seen such an oasis since.

My picking hand goes limp at my side. "I'm going to die to a broken pot, aren't I? Hubert, the Great Wizard of the next generation, brought low by the workmen of civilizations past!" My cheeks scrunch up and precious water fills my eyes. I'm a failure. Both as a traveler and as a wizard. Who has heard of an apprentice dying like this? A lab experiment gone wrong, sure. But this? Never. I'll bet all the others at the college already knew how to fix a wound like this anyway. They'd be up and at 'em around the time infection overtakes me.

The light of my spell catches in my eyes. Might as well perfect this little thing while I still draw breath. Holding it up above my head, I flick my fingers outward. The single orb disperses into several smaller ones. With my will they scatter around to the corners of the room. Perhaps a little light show will keep me entertained before dehydration sets in?

I roll my eyes. "Oh yes, I'm sure the pixies will be very impressed with this." In frustration I mentally toss the orbs against the opposing wall. Not as if they had any mass or force behind them, but their tiny explosions of color served to quell my anger a little.

As one of the lights fades away in the corner, a particle of luminescence appears to flutter into the space between the bricks of the wall. A moment passes before I rub my hands together to manifest another light orb. It moves to the wall and manages to squeeze through a crack I did not see before, lighting up a room behind it.

"Aha, what's this?" Standing, I hop on one leg to the wall and peer inside. Nothing of import could be seen, but it was enough to tell me there were certainly things on the other side that were untouched by looters. "Perhaps there is purpose in my coming here after all."

With a flicker of green power in my hand, I take a step back and thrust my arm at the narrow gaps in the wall. With an explosion of force that would make any armored warrior weep for his mother, the bricks shot into the adjacent room and blasted even more dust around my shelter.

And my peers said my favorite spell is useless outside of battle.

Not waiting for the dust to clear, I regathered the ball of light to my hand and slid into the new room. Before me, covered in cobwebs and a fine layer of dust, is a statue. A statue of a woman. She has been sitting patiently in the center of the room for, quite possibly, centuries. Her hair is shoulder-length and composed of clay, much like her long robes, while the rest of her seems to be living stone frozen in time.

My eyes dart around the room for anything else. There has to be something else here besides someone's art project. On my left is a desk. It almost looks like a stand for blueprints or something. Angling the light underneath it, I see a series of plates like those one would find on armor. Upon closer inspection, they were made of stone. I shuffle past the statue and pick up one of the stone plates.

"Runes?" I mutter, turning the thing around in my hands. The only symbol etched on the plate was one meaning "servant." The runic alphabet was the first thing Master taught me, and it was beginning to pay off. "A golem, of all things?" I rush over to the statue woman and look her over. "Nobody makes the likes of you anymore! All that free will and equal rights garbage gets in the way!" I bat some dust off her face, my fingertips lingering on her closed eyelids. She felt very much like simple stone.

Using a small knife from my belt, I start scratching more runes into the plate. "Master: Hubert. Disposition: Helpful. Priority: Safety/Health of Master." As soon as the last lines are completed, the plate yanks itself from my hand. Like a magnet it flies onto the shoulder of the statue, shattering the clay robes she was wearing over the arm. With a shudder her skin generates a soft glow. Cracks and fissures that developed over the centuries of neglect begin to heal and close. The clay of her hair ceases to be rigid and begins to sway to the soft wind the magic creates. Her robes do the same, becoming like true fabric and covering all of her except her left arm down to her knees.

The eyes of the golem peel open, revealing irises lacking any sort of reflection. "Ready to serve. Master Hubert. How may this one assist you?"

It worked. I hated having to learn such an intricate and convoluted alphabet, but it worked.

A thought occurs to me. "Golem, do you have a name?"

She nods. "My previous master designated this one as Cannenta." A shudder runs up her back. "Apologies. Master Hubert. This one requires nourishment to maintain functionality."

My heart skips a beat. Everyone and their mother knows how golems function. These days the immortal things stay with a husband, stick it out for the man's lifetime, and move on to the next one. Those deranged succubi sure knew how to craft them back then, didn't they?

"I see," I say as coolly as possible. So, my first time with a woman is to be with her? I have heard of worse ways to go about it. I was already half mast, as the sailors say. She wordlessly lifts her robes, revealing her utter lack of undergarments. Her crafted perfection leaves me aghast as I begin taking off my cloak. Thinking about how best to go about this, I move us to one of the work benches in the main room and order her to lay on it.

As she situates herself, she looks down at my foot with the same dead expression. "Injury detected. Master Hubert. Please lay down and relax. This one will procure nourishment. There is no need to over-exert yourself."

Well. She sure is helpful. Good to know the old runes still work.

We switch, and she immediately positions herself above me. Holding me in her hand, she patiently waits for my erection to fully realize. The instant it does, she lowers herself down and takes me inside her in one thrust. I let out a grunt and clench my teeth at the new feeling. Somehow she was wet inside. Where did that moisture come from in this desert? Dutifully, Cannenta begins pulling herself up and down with the steady and relentless movements of a machine. The soft earthy flesh of her legs and backside bounce against my pelvis. I had no idea she could weigh as much as she does; the bench creaked and shuffled beneath us.

It is not long before I come to fruition and spray myself inside her. Fast, efficient, and cold. My first time with a woman. Rather, a woman-shaped thing. I come down from the high quickly as she steps down from the work bench. She doesn't even bother cleaning herself up.

"Master Hubert," she says in her monotone voice. "This one will assist however it can."

I realize I'm still panting. "I, uh. I need water."

She bows. "Understood. Master Hubert."

Cannenta leaves me in the workshop, my robes still bundled up beneath me. Curling up on the table and covering myself with my cloak, I find myself unspeakably tired. The light from my spell flickers and goes out, along with my consciousness.

* * *

"Master Hubert. Please awaken." The familiar voice startles me. I never dream when I sleep, so the sudden noise shocks me awake with a gasp. "We have arrived. Master Hubert."

My eyes are bombarded with bright light and warmth. "What? Arrived where?" It takes me a few blinks to realize I'm being carried, bundled up in my cloak and in the arms of the golem. Bridal style. If the other apprentices ever see me like this I'll never hear the end of it.

"While Master Hubert slept, this one located a nearby water source." Her hands and feet are covered in scratches, and her cheeks look like they have been flayed off her face. Did she search through the sandstorm at night for this place?

I look around among the blinding sun to see rippling waters before us. Clear liquid spreads out as far as the next desert dune, with a single bush shaking in the wind beside the oasis.

Looking back at the woman holding me, she says. "Please unwrap your foot. Master Hubert. This one will tend to it." If I didn't know better, I could swear she smiled.

The water was warm, but it washed away the filth in my wound. The golem makes it all the better as she cleans it with her perfect clay hands. The next thing I do after she dresses it is dunk my head into the water and take a big gulp. A shout of relief escapes me as I pull my head to the surface once more. Once more I can feel my future as something other than infection and death. I swear to myself that I will learn all of the boring healing spells, no matter how terrible I might be with them. Water creation and levitation sound like good ideas as well.

"Is Master Hubert satisfied?" the golem asks. She sits on her knees, patiently waiting for me to say something.

I stand up in the sand, making sure not to get any grit in my wound again, and settle next to Cannenta. Taking her hands in mine, I say, "Thank you. Cannenta. You-- you saved my life."

Without skipping a beat, she responds with, "This one lives only to serve Master Hubert. No thanks are necessary for this one."

A weight falls into my gut. She calls me master, yet I have done nothing for her. I didn't even create her. All I amount to is a worthless wizard greenhorn who could only stumble upon the find of his apprenticeship. The only thing I excel at seems to be battle spells and the runic alphabet.

Runes. I glance at her shoulder, the plate as dusty as the rest of her from the sandstorm.

I draw me knife and say, "Hold still."

"Of course. Master Hubert." Those words grate on my conscience.

Leaning over her, I cross out my name and the disposition I chose in her stead. In place of them, I write, "Master: Cannenta."