Chapter 5
   "Pah! Fie! What cretinous peasant does disturb me by knocking thus loud at my portal at this unearthly hour? A new chapter is not due until tomorrow!" The hermit wizard was his usual cheerful self.
   That evening, Elvis had reached the northern end of the valley where the rocky western scarp was at its greyest and dreariest. Atop the escarpment was the hermit wizard's dwelling, a strangely proportioned edifice by this kingdom's standards. It was a perfectly cuboid building made of smooth marble with double glazed windows and a stainless steel chimney from the central heating boiler. It even had a system of lighting in which small glass spheres issued artificial light. There was none of the greasy smoke here associated with oil lamps and open wood fire cooking. The occupant was not so much a wizard as a sham wizard. He shunned contact with ordinary folk and spent his time experimenting with wizardly things and concocting potions and elixirs. He was not much liked by the folk of the valley as he treated all visitors with irascibility, impatience and contempt. But folk still went to see him, mainly to buy his famous potions to cure ailments or conditions that they did not dare to go to the good doctor Greebyl in the city with; things like pubic lice that they'd caught from a mates wife. And his elixir for getting rid of the parsnip-farts was a best seller.
   He had started on the path to wizardhood at an early age; fifteen. He was then a tall, thin, acned, gangly, teenager with a long hooked nose who was constantly ridiculed by his peers. He had lived in a little hamlet up the Lyftord river, the left-hand river (literally ‘left thigh' in the local dialect). He became fed up with being made fun of by the other youngsters. Indeed, he had a massive complex about his appearance. With a total absence of suitable psychiatric help in such ancient times and rural location, his complex became more and more ... complex. He was soon acutely psychotic. One day, when someone said he looked like a mad wizard, he almost killed the maker of the unfortunate statement. Then, not more than a week later, at the local haywain-boot sale, he found what appeared to be a wizard's hat. A powerful omen, he thought; the nasty comment, then finding the hat meant that he should become a wizard. Little did he suspect, but it was not a wizard's hat, but a real and magic witch's hat. It does make a difference. Anyway, to him it was an omen and he considered that with the pointy head attire, he was now a wizard. At fifteen. But wizards have to have a suitably wizardly name; Malcolm Goosegrease was hardly befitting. So he packed his meagre possessions in a bundle and set off into the big wide world to seek his fortune ... and to find a new name. The big wide world was discovered, for him anyway, several miles south in Gymryk city.
   In the city square, in front of Gymryk Castle, was the market; yes, it was a Thursday. Malcolm Goosegrease wandered between the stalls. On one were hundreds of old books. He thumbed through a few. They were all in a language strange to him. Actually, they were all written in his own language, but as schools did not exist in this domain and his reading ability was, to be generous, basic, even his own language was strange to him. But one word he did recognise was magic, so when he found a book entitled ‘Magic And How To Succeed In Business As A Wizard', he bought it. Perhaps he could find help on a name in this book. There was only one picture in the whole book, a drawing of a most impressive wizard. Under the picture was the legend ‘The Wizard Merl...'. The rest of the word was on the piece of page that someone had torn off to light their pipe from a fire.
   All that evening, Malcolm pondered on what ‘Merl...' could have been. As he walked the narrow alleys of Gymryk City looking for very cheap accommodation, he happened to kick against an empty bottle lying in the centre gutter. He stared down at the label; it was the local wine: Gymryk Merlot. So that was it! Wizards named themselves after wines! He hastened to find a wine shop and peered through the window. The most expensive wine in the best shaped bottle with the most colourful label was a rather exclusive vintage from a posh country way off down the Ryktord river; a fine Pinot Noir. So that was when he became the wizard Pinot Noir. And now, many many many many many years later, with his white beard (neatly trimmed, not long and straggly) he even looked like a proper wizard, behaved like a proper wizard, and lived a hermitic existence like a proper wizard. Only he wasn=t; wizards are not made or taught, they are born, or more accurately, re-born.
   "It is me, sire!"
   The tall pseudo-wizard looked over Elvis's head without seeing him and into the distance. He shaded his eyes and with a theatrical gesture peered in all directions. "Huh! I could have sworn I heard someone speak. Nobody about, though."
   "Down here."
   Pinot Noir looked down and with a histrionic start exclaimed, "Zounds! A extremely small person! A diminutive being! An extraordinarily short ma... you are a man?"
   "I am a dwarf, sire."
   "A dwarf? A dwarf! Oh, how honoured I am to be the subject of a visit from a ... dwarf.  Bugger off, runt-person, I'm busy!"
   "But sire ...", Elvis was quick-thinking. "Your reputation as a truly great wizard has travelled far and wide. Why, even in my native land, and in the northernmost community of Blackthorpe Mines, where none other than my paternal grandfather, the great and famous Jarvis Cocker The Rock-Crushing Rocker (who has bored the deepest mines in our history) lives, you are well known for your marvellous magic and potent potions. Why, even in my distant travels, down to where the great river Urus flows into the never-ending sea, I have heard your name revered. Why, even ..."
   "Enough!" Pinot Noir chuckled. "Blackthorpe Mines, eh? Jarvis Cocker The Rock-Crushing Rocker? Only thing he likely bores is the pants off everyone. The Urus estuary, eh? So you've been there? How? In your pram, young 'un?"
   "Well ..."
   "Ha! Bless my soul! A cub-dwarf who deigns to be an apprentice, I shouldn't wonder. Sent you here, have they? On your Task, are you? And what is your Task? Annoy the old wizard? Steal his staff and stick it atop the crooked windmill in Gymryk?  Or perhaps get an ugly potion to administer to the Lovely Lauren, the most expensive pay-shag in the city, after charming her into a freebie? Ha! It'd take more than you've got, sonny!"
   "Well ..."
   "Worse than that?"
   "Well ..."
   "Cease all that ‘welling'... you're more boring than your grandfather."
   "Sire ... I have to ... steal the virginity of the beautiful princess Virgin...ia," he replied meekly.
   "Ha ... Ha ha ... Ha ha ha!  Haaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaa!!!! ... Heeeeeee heeeeeee!!!" Pinot Noir laughed and laughed. He laughed so much he cried. He laughed so much that he fell to the floor. He laughed so much that he writhed in agony. He was in total hysterics. He could hardly breathe for laughing.
   For several minutes, Elvis stood open mouthed. Was the old wizard mad? Was he having a fit? Would he suffer a stroke? Was he likely to expire completely from such violent laughter?
   Eventually, the wizard stopped laughing, except for the occasional giggle and got up. He then did something totally out of character for a wizard; he put an arm around Elvis's shoulder and smiled at him. "I've got to hand it to you, young fellow, nobody but nobody has ever made me laugh so much. Steal the virginity of the beautiful and nubile princess Virgin...ia? I like your style! You're a real tonic for an old hermit wizard, you really are. Come inside. Let me get you something to eat and drink." Pinot Noir was still chuckling as he cooked himself and Elvis some eggs and bacon.
   After the meal, Pinot Noir lit his pipe and leaned back in his rickety old chair. He was still smiling. "Know what?" he said.
   "No."
   "I'm going to help you with your Task. Yes, help you. For many reasons; I like your cheek ... take the beauty's maidenhead, indeed! I'd just love to see old Featherlite's face when he finds out it was a dwarf who knobbed his daughter first!  Ha ha! And that old sour-puss queen Phoebe. I'd relish being the one to tell her not to bother to find a tall, dark, handsome, rich prince for her girl because a dwarf apprentice has already shafted her! Hee hee! What a wheeze!"
   "Thanks, Mister Pinot Noir, but how can you help?"
   "Just call me Pinot, son. How can I help? I'll give you knock out potions for the castle guards and old King Condom, and a love potion for the princess. In fact, I'll mix you up another one for the girl; a nice powerful aphrodisiac that'll make her randy for a fortnight! You'll be guaranteed to get it time after time! D'you want me to prepare my best stallion-staying-power potion for yourself? It will give you a rampant hard-on for, oh, at least a week! You may need it ..."
   "Er ... OK."
   "And you'd better make a plan. Potions I can do, the rest is up to you."