Merlin McSniffles had always been proud of his perfectly groomed beard, his pointy hat that never seemed to fall off no matter how vigorously he gestured, and his ability to turn anyone into a toad with just a flick of his wrist. What he was decidedly not proud of was the fact that he had developed the most inconvenient case of magical sneezing in the history of wizardry.
It had started three weeks ago on a Tuesday. Merlin had been attempting to brew a simple love potion for Mrs. Henderson’s cat (apparently Mr. Whiskers had been giving the cold shoulder to every eligible feline in the village), when he inhaled a bit too much powdered unicorn horn. The sneeze that followed was so monumentally powerful that it not only blew the roof clean off his tower, but also turned every flower in a five-mile radius into tiny, screaming faces that demanded to know why they suddenly had opinions about municipal tax policy.
That should have been the end of it. A good night’s sleep, perhaps a soothing cup of chamomile tea, and everything would return to normal. But Merlin McSniffles had never been particularly normal, and his sinuses, it turned out, had developed their own sense of theatrical timing.
“ACHOO!” The sneeze erupted from Merlin like a volcano of mucus and mayhem, causing his morning coffee mug to sprout legs and begin tap-dancing across his kitchen table while singing what sounded suspiciously like show tunes.
“Oh, for the love of—” Merlin began, but was cut off by another explosive sneeze that turned his pet raven, Edgar, into a bright pink flamingo with an attitude problem.
“This is highly undignified,” Edgar squawked, now standing on one impossibly long leg and glaring at Merlin with beady black eyes. “I demand you change me back immediately.”
“I would if I could control when I sneeze!” Merlin protested, reaching for a handkerchief just as his nose began to twitch ominously again. “ACHOO!”
This time, the sneeze was so powerful that it launched Merlin backward through his front door, across his garden (where his prize-winning tomatoes were now doing synchronized swimming in midair), and straight into the village fountain with a tremendous splash.
The villagers of Bumbleshire had grown accustomed to their local wizard’s eccentricities over the years. After all, this was the same man who had once accidentally turned the town’s water supply into chocolate milk for three days (which nobody had actually complained about), and who had somehow managed to teach the local scarecrows to play poker (they were surprisingly good at bluffing). But a wizard who couldn’t control his sneezing was proving to be more than just eccentric—it was becoming downright hazardous.
“Merlin!” called out Beatrice Crumplebottom, the village baker, as she watched her freshly baked bread loaves begin marching around her shop like tiny, crusty soldiers. “You’ve got to do something about this sneezing situation!”
“I’m trying!” Merlin sputtered, climbing out of the fountain and wringing water from his robes. His pointy hat, somehow still perfectly positioned on his head despite the aquatic adventure, dripped steadily onto his nose. “I’ve tried everything I can think of—holding my breath, thinking about sad puppies, even standing on my head while reciting the alphabet backward in ancient Elvish!”
“Have you tried just… not sneezing?” suggested Tom Butterworth, the village blacksmith, who was currently watching his hammer bounce around his shop like an overly enthusiastic puppy.
Merlin gave Tom a look that could have melted steel. “Oh, why didn’t I think of that? Just… not sneeze. Brilliant. Revolutionary. Perhaps next you’ll suggest I cure my hiccups by simply choosing not to hiccup.”
Before Tom could respond with what was undoubtedly another stroke of genius, Merlin’s nose began to twitch again. The wizard’s eyes widened in horror as he felt the familiar tingling sensation building behind his sinuses.
“Everyone take cover!” he shouted, but it was too late.
“ACHOO!”
The sneeze was particularly spectacular this time. Every bird within a hundred yards suddenly found itself wearing tiny top hats and monocles, the village well began dispensing rainbow-colored water that tasted faintly of cotton candy, and Mrs. Henderson’s cat, Mr. Whiskers, grew to the size of a small elephant and developed an inexplicable desire to chase laser pointers that didn’t exist.
“Right,” said Merlin, surveying the chaos around him with the weary resignation of a man who had long since given up on normal Tuesday mornings. “I need to find a cure for this before I accidentally turn the entire kingdom inside out.”
“Perhaps you should consult the Great Library of Mystical Maladies,” suggested Beatrice, trying to corral her marching bread loaves back into their baskets. “Surely someone has written about magical sneezing before.”
Merlin perked up slightly. The Great Library was located in the capital city of Whimsydale, about a day’s journey from Bumbleshire. If anywhere would have information about his peculiar condition, it would be there.
“Excellent idea,” he said, then paused as his nose began to twitch again. “But I should probably travel by foot rather than by magic carpet. Last time I sneezed while flying, I accidentally created a small thunderstorm that rained jellybeans for three hours.”
The journey to Whimsydale would normally have been pleasant and uneventful. The road wound through rolling green hills dotted with sheep, past babbling brooks that actually babbled (thanks to a spell gone wrong some fifty years earlier), and through the Whispering Woods, where the trees offered unsolicited advice to travelers about everything from their love lives to their choice of footwear.
However, traveling with a wizard who couldn’t control his sneezing proved to be anything but uneventful.
Two hours into the journey, Merlin’s first sneeze turned a flock of sheep into a marching band complete with tiny instruments and an overwhelming desire to play “The William Tell Overture” at maximum volume. The farmer who owned them, a stout man named Gerald Woolsworth, was less than pleased.
“My sheep!” Gerald cried, chasing after his woolly musicians as they paraded down the road in perfect formation. “They’re supposed to be producing wool, not waltzes!”
“Sorry!” Merlin called over his shoulder as he hurried past. “The effect should wear off in a few hours!”
“A few hours?!” Gerald shouted back, but Merlin was already disappearing around a bend in the road, leaving behind the fading sounds of sheep-powered symphonic music.
The next incident occurred at the babbling brook, which had been in the middle of complaining about the recent drought when Merlin approached for a drink of water.
“—and don’t even get me started on the quality of rainwater these days,” the brook was saying. “In my day, precipitation had character, substance, a certain je ne sais—”
“ACHOO!”
The sneeze hit the brook mid-sentence, and suddenly the clear mountain water turned bright purple and began flowing uphill while singing opera. Very loud, very dramatic opera about the tragic love affair between a fish and a bicycle.
“Oh, come on!” the brook gurgled indignantly, now forced to sing its complaints in the form of an elaborate aria. “This is highly irregular! I have a reputation to maintain!”
Merlin hurried on, trying to ignore the increasingly dramatic musical performance behind him.
By the time he reached the Whispering Woods, Merlin was beginning to feel like a one-man natural disaster. His sneezes had transformed: a mailbox into a disco ball (which was now throwing an impromptu dance party for the local squirrels), three road signs into abstract sculptures that pointed in directions like “Towards Tomorrow” and “Left of Maybe,” and one unfortunate toad into a philosophy professor who wouldn’t stop lecturing passing butterflies about the meaning of existence.
The trees in the Whispering Woods were, as usual, full of advice.
“You look troubled, traveler,” murmured an ancient oak as Merlin passed beneath its branches.
“I have magical sneezing,” Merlin replied, too tired to be surprised by talking trees anymore.
“Ah, yes, I can sense the chaotic energy around you,” the oak said thoughtfully. “Might I suggest—”
“ACHOO!”
The sneeze was so powerful that it stripped all the leaves from the oak and rearranged them into what appeared to be a very detailed map of the local area, complete with tiny leaf-based landmarks and a compass rose made of acorns.
“Well,” said the now-naked oak, examining its impromptu foliage cartography with interest, “that’s actually quite helpful. I’ve never been able to see the forest for the… well, me.”
“Sorry,” Merlin mumbled, studying the leaf map. According to the acorn compass, he was still several hours from Whimsydale.
“Don’t apologize,” said a nearby maple tree. “Gerald’s been trying to figure out the local geography for centuries. You’ve just solved his biggest problem.”
“My name is Gerald,” the oak corrected. “And yes, this is surprisingly informative. Did you know there’s a hidden waterfall just two miles northeast of here?”
“I did not,” Merlin admitted, then felt his nose beginning to twitch again. “I should probably keep moving before I accidentally turn you all into furniture or something.”
“Wise choice,” agreed a birch tree. “Though if you do sneeze again, could you aim it at Harold over there? He’s been complaining about his bark condition for decades.”
“I heard that!” protested a pine tree presumably named Harold.
Merlin hurried on before the trees could drag him into their arboreal drama, leaving behind the sound of Gerald the Oak excitedly describing the geography of his own forest to anyone who would listen.
The sun was beginning to set by the time Merlin finally crested the hill overlooking Whimsydale. The capital city spread out below him like a patchwork quilt of twinkling lights and oddly-shaped buildings. The Great Library rose from the center of the city like a massive crystal formation, its countless windows glowing with the warm light of a thousand reading lamps.
Merlin had always loved Whimsydale. It was a city where magic was so commonplace that street lamps lit themselves, where the garbage collected itself and sorted itself for recycling, and where the local taxi service consisted of flying carpets operated by a guild of extremely professional djinn who took great pride in their customer service ratings.
Unfortunately, Merlin’s current condition made him about as welcome in a magical city as a bull in a china shop, if the bull also happened to be carrying dynamite and had a tendency to sneeze explosively every few minutes.
He had barely made it through the city gates when disaster struck again.
“ACHOO!”
The sneeze turned the guard station into a giant music box, complete with tiny dancing figures and a tinkling melody that sounded suspiciously like “London Bridge is Falling Down.” The city guards, now transformed into miniature ballerinas in tutus and tights, were forced to pirouette their way through their security duties.
“Halt!” commanded Captain Reginald Stiffwhisker, attempting to maintain his dignity despite being on his tiptoes in a pink tutu. “State your business in—” He attempted a graceful leap and nearly fell over. “—in Whimsydale!”
“I’m Merlin McSniffles,” Merlin said, trying not to laugh at the sight of the intimidating guard captain en pointe. “I need to consult the Great Library about a magical malady.”
“The wizard with the sneezing problem!” exclaimed Lieutenant Bernadette Crankypants, spinning in place like a music box dancer. “We’ve heard about you! Half the countryside is reporting magical chaos!”
“That would be me, yes,” Merlin admitted. “How long before the transformation wears off?”
Captain Stiffwhisker consulted a pocket watch while maintaining a perfect arabesque. “Based on previous reports, approximately three to four hours. We’ll manage, but please try to keep your sneezing to a minimum while in the city.”
“I’ll do my best,” Merlin promised, though his nose was already beginning to twitch ominously.
The Great Library of Mystical Maladies was even more impressive up close than it had appeared from the hill. The building seemed to be constructed entirely of crystallized knowledge, with walls that shifted and changed to display relevant information as visitors approached. Merlin had barely reached the front steps when the crystal surface began showing images of various magical ailments: wizards covered in polka dots, a sorceress whose hair had turned into live snakes (and not in a fashionable Medusa way), and a warlock who had somehow managed to turn his own shadow into a separate entity that followed other people around offering unsolicited life advice.
The head librarian was a stern-looking woman named Wilhelmina Bookbottom, whose most notable feature was her ability to levitate approximately three feet off the ground at all times. This wasn’t due to magic, but rather to the fact that she had read so many books that she had developed a natural buoyancy in the presence of knowledge.
“Merlin McSniffles,” she said, floating down from her perch behind the information desk. “We’ve been expecting you. Half the magical community is talking about your… condition.”
“Is there anything in your collection about magical sneezing?” Merlin asked hopefully.
“Indeed there is,” Wilhelmina said, drifting toward a section of the library labeled “Uncontrollable Magical Emissions.” “Follow me, but please try to keep your nasal explosions to a minimum. We’ve just reorganized the Catastrophic Curse section, and I’d rather not have to do it again.”
The section on magical sneezing turned out to be surprisingly extensive. Apparently, Merlin was not the first wizard to develop this particular problem, though he seemed to be one of the more severe cases.
“Here we are,” Wilhelmina said, pulling a thick tome from the shelf. “The Complete Guide to Magical Sneezing, Sniffling, and Related Nasal Calamities, by Professor Cornelius Snotworthy.”
Merlin opened the book eagerly and began to read. According to Professor Snotworthy (who, the book noted, had himself suffered from magical hiccups that caused him to accidentally teleport to random locations every time he hiccupped), magical sneezing was typically caused by an overexposure to certain magical substances, particularly powdered unicorn horn, dragon scale dust, or essence of pixie.
“That’s it!” Merlin exclaimed, causing several nearby books to flutter nervously on their shelves. “I inhaled unicorn horn powder while brewing that love potion!”
“Ah, yes,” Wilhelmina nodded knowingly. “Unicorn horn powder is notorious for causing nasal magical instability. What does the book say about the cure?”
Merlin flipped through several pages, his excitement growing. “Here it is! The cure for unicorn horn-induced magical sneezing is…” His face fell as he read the next line. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What does it say?” Wilhelmina asked, though her floating height had increased slightly, suggesting she was preparing to take evasive action.
“The cure,” Merlin read aloud, “is to obtain a single sneeze from a dragon who has never sneezed before, mix it with the tears of a laughing phoenix, and consume the mixture while standing on one leg in a field of backwards-growing daisies during a full moon.”
Wilhelmina blinked slowly. “That’s… quite specific.”
“Dragons don’t typically sneeze,” Merlin said, closing the book with a thud that caused a nearby encyclopedia to yelp in surprise. “They breathe fire. Their sinuses are probably made of asbestos or something equally sneeze-proof.”
“And phoenixes don’t usually laugh,” Wilhelmina added helpfully. “They’re generally quite serious birds, what with all the dying and being reborn business.”
“Plus, backwards-growing daisies are practically extinct,” Merlin continued, his despair deepening. “I think there’s maybe one field left in the entire kingdom, and it’s guarded by a very cranky ogre who charges outrageous admission fees.”
Before Wilhelmina could offer any words of comfort, Merlin felt the familiar tingling in his nose.
“Oh no,” he said, and then: “ACHOO!”
The sneeze was particularly potent, fueled by his frustration and despair. Every book in the entire library suddenly began reading itself aloud, creating a cacophony of voices discussing everything from advanced potion-making techniques to the mating habits of purple-spotted newts. The card catalog exploded into a shower of index cards that began rearranging themselves into what appeared to be a very detailed grocery list, and poor Wilhelmina shot up toward the ceiling like a rocket, her natural book-induced buoyancy amplified by the magical chaos.
“I’ll take that as my cue to leave,” Merlin said, grabbing the Professor Snotworthy book and heading for the exit as quickly as possible.
“Good luck!” Wilhelmina called from somewhere near the ceiling, where she was now stuck among the floating chandelier crystals. “Try not to sneeze on any more libraries!”
Merlin’s next stop was the Whimsydale Dragon Preserve, located just outside the city limits. It was run by a cheerful woman named Daphne Dragonwhisper, who had the unusual distinction of being fluent in seventeen different dragon dialects, including the rarely-used Dragon Sarcasm, which consisted entirely of eye-rolling and huffing sounds.
“A dragon who’s never sneezed?” Daphne mused, leading Merlin through the preserve’s visitor center, which was decorated with autographed photos of various dragons she had worked with over the years. “That’s quite a challenge. Dragons are remarkably sneeze-resistant creatures.”
They walked past several enclosures containing dragons of various sizes and temperaments. There was Reginald, a massive red dragon who spent most of his time knitting scarves with his claws; Priscilla, a blue dragon who had developed a passion for interpretive dance; and Gerald (apparently Gerald was a popular name in this part of the kingdom), a small green dragon who painted watercolor landscapes and sold them at the weekend farmers market.
“What about him?” Merlin asked, pointing to a purple dragon who was sitting in the corner of his enclosure reading what appeared to be a romance novel.
“That’s Byron,” Daphne explained. “He’s our resident intellectual. Spends most of his time reading poetry and sighing dramatically about the state of modern literature. I’ve never seen him sneeze, but then again, he’s usually too busy being dramatically melancholy to engage in basic biological functions.”
They approached Byron’s enclosure, and Daphne called out in fluent Dragon. Byron looked up from his book with the expression of someone who had been interrupted during a particularly emotional passage.
“He says he’s never sneezed,” Daphne translated, “and he finds the entire concept rather plebeian. He’s also wondering if you’ve read the latest collection of sonnets by Lady Penelope Farthingworth, because he thinks you’d find them ‘devastatingly beautiful in their portrayal of unrequited love.'”
“Ask him if he’d be willing to try sneezing,” Merlin requested. “It’s for a good cause.”
Daphne spoke to Byron in Dragon, complete with the elaborate hand gestures that were apparently necessary for proper pronunciation. Byron’s response was lengthy and involved several dramatic wing flourishes.
“He says,” Daphne translated, “that sneezing is beneath his dignity as a creature of refined sensibilities. However, he might be persuaded to attempt it if you could provide him with a first edition copy of ‘Sonnets for the Soulfully Bereft’ by Archibald Melancholy.”
“I don’t even know what that is,” Merlin said.
“It’s very rare,” Daphne explained. “Published about two hundred years ago, only fifty copies were ever made. They occasionally show up at auction for astronomical prices.”
Before Merlin could respond, his nose began to twitch. He tried to hold back the sneeze, but it was like trying to hold back a volcanic eruption with a cork.
“ACHOO!”
The sneeze was so powerful that it caused every dragon in the preserve to simultaneously burst into song. Not roaring, not breathing fire, but actual singing, complete with harmony and choreographed movements. Reginald began belting out what sounded like opera, Priscilla launched into a jazzy number about the weather, and Gerald started crooning a love ballad to his watercolor brushes.
Byron, meanwhile, had been struck by what could only be described as musical inspiration. He leaped onto a rock in the center of his enclosure and began performing what appeared to be the dragon equivalent of a Broadway show tune about the tragic nature of existence.
“Well,” said Daphne, watching in amazement as her dragons put on an impromptu musical performance, “I’ve been working with dragons for twenty years, and I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Sorry,” Merlin mumbled, but Daphne was grinning from ear to ear.
“Are you kidding? This is amazing! Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get them to sing together? They’ve always been too proud or too shy or too busy reading poetry!”
The musical number continued for several more minutes, with the dragons creating elaborate harmonies and even some basic dance moves. Byron, in particular, seemed to be having the time of his life, his dramatic personality finally finding an appropriate outlet.
When the song finally ended, Byron approached the edge of his enclosure and spoke to Daphne in Dragon.
“He says,” Daphne translated, looking slightly stunned, “that your sneeze has awakened his artistic soul in ways he never thought possible. He’s so grateful that he wants to help with your quest.”
“Really?” Merlin asked hopefully.
“He says he’ll try to sneeze for you, but he has one condition. He wants you to promise that once you’re cured, you’ll come back and sneeze on the dragons again so they can have another musical experience.”
“Deal,” Merlin said immediately.
Byron positioned himself in the center of his enclosure and closed his eyes in concentration. He took several deep breaths, wrinkled his snout, and made various facial expressions that Merlin assumed were the dragon equivalent of trying to work up a sneeze.
Nothing happened.
Byron tried again, this time adding some dramatic wing-flapping and nostril-flaring. Still nothing.
“This is harder than I thought,” Daphne admitted. “Dragons’ sinuses are designed to handle extremely hot air and various toxic fumes. Getting one to sneeze is like trying to make a volcano freeze.”
Byron was becoming increasingly frustrated with his inability to produce a sneeze. He tried thinking about sad things, happy things, dusty things, and peppery things. He stuck flower petals up his nose, stared directly at the sun, and even attempted to tickle his own nostrils with his claws.
Finally, in desperation, Byron grabbed a handful of sand from his enclosure and threw it into the air above his head, then stood directly underneath the falling particles with his head tilted back and his nostrils flared.
“ACHOO!”
The dragon sneeze was magnificent. It was less of a sneeze and more of a controlled explosion, complete with a small firework display and a shower of sparkles that rained down like magical confetti. It was also loud enough to be heard three counties away and briefly registered on the kingdom’s earthquake monitoring equipment.
“Got it!” Daphne shouted, holding up a small crystal vial that had somehow managed to capture the essence of Byron’s sneeze. “One dragon sneeze from a previously non-sneezing dragon!”
Byron looked tremendously pleased with himself, probably because he had managed to make his sneeze both dramatic and artistic. He immediately began composing what appeared to be a sonnet about the experience.
“One down, two to go,” Merlin said, accepting the vial gratefully. “Now I need the tears of a laughing phoenix.”
The Phoenix Sanctuary was located high in the Misty Mountains, about a day’s journey from the Dragon Preserve. Phoenixes, being creatures of fire and rebirth, preferred the thin air and dramatic cliff faces that reminded them of their natural habitat in the upper atmosphere.
The journey was relatively uneventful, mostly because Merlin had learned to recognize the warning signs of an impending sneeze and had developed a system of diving behind rocks, trees, or other convenient cover whenever he felt his nose beginning to twitch. This technique had prevented him from accidentally transforming: a flock of migrating geese into a marching band (though one particularly stubborn goose had insisted on wearing a tiny tuba for several miles), a mountain stream into a chocolate fountain (which had attracted every bear within fifty miles), and a family of friendly trolls into a barbershop quartet (though they had actually seemed to enjoy the experience and continued harmonizing long after the effect wore off).
The Phoenix Sanctuary was built into the side of a cliff face, with narrow walkways and platforms that allowed visitors to observe the magnificent birds without disturbing their natural behaviors. The sanctuary was run by a ancient woman named Tabitha Firefeather, who claimed to be the great-great-great-granddaughter of a phoenix (which would explain her hair, which appeared to be made of actual flames).
“A laughing phoenix?” Tabitha mused, leading Merlin along one of the cliff-side walkways. “That’s quite unusual. Phoenixes are generally serious creatures, what with the constant dying and being reborn. It’s hard to maintain a sense of humor when you burst into flames every few decades.”
They stopped at an observation platform where several phoenixes were going about their daily activities. There was Flambert, an elderly phoenix who spent most of his time complaining about young phoenixes and their lack of respect for traditional burning techniques; Ignacia, a middle-aged phoenix who had recently taken up yoga and insisted that proper breathing technique was essential for a good rebirth; and Sparky, a young phoenix who was going through what appeared to be a rebellious phase and kept threatening to become a regular bird just to annoy his parents.
“What about her?” Merlin asked, pointing to a phoenix who was sitting by herself, reading what appeared to be a joke book.
“That’s Chuckles,” Tabitha explained. “She’s our resident comedian, though she’s never actually laughed at anything. She studies humor quite extensively, but phoenixes don’t seem to have the same sense of comedy that other creatures do.”
They approached Chuckles’ perch, and Tabitha called out to her in Phoenix, which sounded like a combination of musical notes and crackling fire.
Chuckles looked up from her joke book and responded in the same melodious crackling language.
“She says she’s been studying humor for thirty-seven years,” Tabitha translated, “and she still doesn’t understand why humans find it funny when someone slips on a banana peel. She’s also confused about why anyone would want her tears, since phoenix tears are notoriously hot and tend to evaporate before they hit the ground.”
“Tell her it’s for a cure,” Merlin said. “And maybe… tell her a joke?”
Tabitha spoke to Chuckles again, then turned back to Merlin. “She wants to hear your best joke. She says if you can make her laugh, she’ll gladly provide tears.”
Merlin thought for a moment. He wasn’t particularly known for his sense of humor—most of his attempts at comedy involved accidentally turning people into small woodland creatures—but he had to try.
“Why don’t dragons ever tell jokes?” Merlin asked.
Chuckles tilted her head, interested.
“Because they always get fired up about the punchline!”
Chuckles stared at him for a long moment, then made a sound that might have been polite phoenix laughter, but no tears appeared.
“She says that was adequately amusing but not laugh-worthy,” Tabitha translated. “Try again.”
Merlin tried several more jokes, ranging from puns about magical creatures to observational humor about the difficulties of being a wizard. Chuckles listened politely to each one, occasionally making sounds that might have been phoenix chuckles, but still no tears.
“This isn’t working,” Merlin said, feeling his nose beginning to twitch. “I’m just not that funny—oh no.”
“ACHOO!”
The sneeze hit the Phoenix Sanctuary like a magical hurricane. Every phoenix in the place suddenly found themselves wearing tiny bow ties and top hats, and more importantly, they were all suddenly compelled to tell jokes to each other in rapid succession.
The result was chaos, but hilarious chaos. Flambert, the elderly phoenix, was suddenly cracking jokes about the good old days when rebirth ceremonies had proper dignity. Ignacia was making puns about yoga poses and spiritual enlightenment. Even Sparky was telling jokes, though his were mostly about how lame his parents were and how he was going to become a flamingo just to spite them.
But the real miracle was Chuckles. For the first time in her thirty-seven years of studying humor, she was actually experiencing it. The combination of seeing her fellow phoenixes telling jokes while wearing formal wear was apparently the perfect storm of comedy for her sensibilities.
She began to laugh. Not the polite, musical sound she had made earlier, but real, genuine, uncontrollable laughter that started as a small chuckle and built into full-blown phoenix hysteria. Tears of pure phoenix fire streamed down her face, evaporating into glittering golden droplets that Tabitha quickly collected in a specialized crystal vial.
“Brilliant!” Tabitha exclaimed, holding up the vial of phoenix tears. “I’ve never seen Chuckles actually laugh before! She’s been studying comedy for decades, but she’s never experienced it!”
Chuckles was still laughing, wiping tears from her eyes with her wing tips. She spoke to Tabitha in between giggles.
“She says,” Tabitha translated, grinning, “that she finally understands why humans think things are funny. The key, apparently, is seeing serious things in ridiculous situations. She’s also wondering if you could sneeze on the sanctuary again next week because she’s never had so much fun in her life.”
“Two down, one to go,” Merlin said, accepting the vial of phoenix tears gratefully. “Now I just need to find the field of backwards-growing daisies.”
The field of backwards-growing daisies was located in the Far Meadows, on the very edge of the kingdom. It was the last known location where these peculiar flowers grew, and it was indeed guarded by a notoriously cranky ogre named Grumpelstiltskin (no relation to the other guy, he insisted, though the similarity in names was unfortunate).
The journey to the Far Meadows took Merlin through some of the most remote parts of the kingdom, where the roads were little more than dirt paths and the local wildlife was both more exotic and more likely to try to eat travelers. He managed to avoid most of the dangerous creatures by virtue of his sneezing, which had the unintended benefit of confusing predators long enough for him to escape.
A pack of wolves had approached him menacingly until a sneeze turned them all into a traveling improv comedy troupe, complete with tiny stage props and an inexplicable knowledge of audience participation techniques. A particularly aggressive mountain bear had been about to make Merlin into lunch when another sneeze transformed the bear into a professional food critic who spent twenty minutes critiquing the nutritional value and presentation of various berries and roots.
By the time Merlin reached the Far Meadows, he was exhausted, hungry, and more determined than ever to find a cure for his condition. The field of backwards-growing daisies was exactly as advertised: a small meadow filled with flowers that grew with their roots in the air and their petals buried in the soil. It was both beautiful and deeply unsettling, like nature had decided to experiment with perspective.
Grumpelstiltskin’s hut was located at the edge of the field, and the ogre himself was sitting on his front porch, glaring at the world in general and Merlin in particular.
“What do you want?” Grumpelstiltskin growled. He was exactly what you’d expect from an ogre named Grumpelstiltskin: large, green, covered in warts, and possessed of a permanent scowl that suggested he had never in his life encountered anything that didn’t irritate him.
“I need to stand in your field of backwards-growing daisies,” Merlin explained. “It’s for a cure.”
“Ha!” Grumpelstiltskin snorted. “Do you know how many people come here asking to stand in my field? Everyone thinks they need backwards-growing daisies for something. Love potions, curse breaking, acne remedies—it’s always something.”
“I’m willing to pay,” Merlin offered.
“Of course you are. Everyone’s willing to pay. The question is, how much?” Grumpelstiltskin’s eyes glittered with avarice. “My standard rate is one thousand gold pieces for five minutes in the field.”
“One thousand gold pieces?” Merlin sputtered. “That’s outrageous!”
“Supply and demand,” Grumpelstiltskin said with a shrug. “There’s only one field of backwards-growing daisies left in the kingdom, and I own it. If you don’t like my prices, you’re welcome to try growing your own backwards daisies. Should only take about two hundred years.”
Merlin felt his nose beginning to twitch. He had been holding back sneezes for most of the journey, and the strain was beginning to tell. Plus, his frustration with Grumpelstiltskin’s price gouging was making the magical pressure even worse.
“One thousand gold pieces is highway robbery,” Merlin said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Couldn’t we negotiate—”
“ACHOO!”
The sneeze was absolutely massive, powered by hours of suppressed magical energy and acute frustration. It hit Grumpelstiltskin’s property like a magical tsunami, transforming everything within a half-mile radius.
The ogre’s hut became a gingerbread house, complete with candy cane pillars and a roof made of chocolate shingles. The vegetable garden turned into a miniature amusement park, with roller coasters made of vines and Ferris wheels constructed from giant sunflowers. Even the outhouse had been transformed into what appeared to be a tiny castle, complete with turrets and a drawbridge.
But the most dramatic change was to Grumpelstiltskin himself. The sneeze had turned the cranky ogre into the happiest, most cheerful creature Merlin had ever seen. His permanent scowl had been replaced by a beaming smile, his gruff voice had become melodious and pleasant, and he was now wearing what appeared to be a flower crown that had spontaneously materialized on his head.
“Oh my goodness!” Grumpelstiltskin exclaimed, clapping his hands together with delight. “What a wonderful sneeze! Look at all these marvelous changes! My house is made of gingerbread! I’ve always wanted a gingerbread house!”
Merlin stared at the transformed ogre in amazement. “You’re… happy?”
“I’m absolutely delighted!” Grumpelstiltskin said, doing a little dance that was surprisingly graceful for such a large creature. “I haven’t felt this good in centuries! Usually I’m just grumpy all the time, but now I feel like singing and dancing and maybe baking cookies for travelers!”
“About the field of backwards-growing daisies…” Merlin began hopefully.
“Oh, use it as much as you like!” Grumpelstiltskin said generously. “In fact, don’t even worry about paying! Consider it my gift to you for bringing such joy into my life! Would you like some cookies? I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to bake cookies!”
Merlin looked at the field of backwards-growing daisies, then at the dragon sneeze and phoenix tears in his possession, then up at the full moon that was just beginning to rise over the Far Meadows.
“Actually,” he said, “I think I’ll take you up on that offer right now.”
Following Professor Snotworthy’s instructions, Merlin mixed the dragon sneeze with the phoenix tears in a small cup (which immediately began glowing with a soft golden light), stood on one leg in the middle of the field of backwards-growing daisies, and drank the mixture in one gulp.
The effect was immediate and dramatic. Merlin felt a warm, tingling sensation start in his toes and work its way up through his entire body. The magical pressure that had been building in his sinuses for weeks suddenly released, but instead of coming out as a sneeze, it dispersed harmlessly throughout his system like steam from a kettle.
“How do you feel?” Grumpelstiltskin asked, bouncing up and down with excitement.
Merlin took a deep breath, waiting for the familiar tickle in his nose. Nothing happened. He took another breath, deliberately thinking about dusty libraries and flower pollen. Still nothing.
“I think…” Merlin said cautiously, “I think it worked.”
To test his theory, he attempted a small spell, turning a nearby rock into a butterfly. The magic flowed smoothly and controllably, with no chaotic side effects or unexpected explosions. The butterfly fluttered gracefully around the field for a moment, then landed on Grumpelstiltskin’s flower crown.
“It worked!” Merlin shouted, so relieved that he nearly started crying. “The sneezing is gone!”
“Wonderful!” Grumpelstiltskin exclaimed. “This calls for a celebration! I’ll bake a cake! No, two cakes! No, an entire bakery!”
The journey back to Bumbleshire was the most pleasant trip Merlin had taken in weeks. Without the constant threat of explosive magical sneezes, he was able to actually enjoy the scenery. The Whispering Woods offered him compliments on his successful quest, the babbling brook (which had returned to its normal clear color and uphill-flowing tendencies) congratulated him on his perseverance, and Gerald Woolsworth’s sheep were so happy to be back to normal that they played him a farewell concert as he passed their field.
When Merlin finally arrived in Bumbleshire, he found the village in the midst of what appeared to be a festival. Banners hung from every building, the fountain (which was still dispensing rainbow-colored cotton candy water) had been decorated with flowers, and all the villagers were gathered in the town square.
“Merlin!” called out Beatrice Crumplebottom, whose bread loaves were thankfully no longer marching around her shop. “Perfect timing! We’re throwing a celebration!”
“A celebration?” Merlin asked, confused. “For what?”
“For you!” exclaimed Tom Butterworth. “Your sneezing curse brought more excitement to Bumbleshire than we’ve had in decades! Mrs. Henderson’s cat is still the size of an elephant, but he’s become the village’s official parade float. The marching bread gave us the idea to start a village band, and those dancing scarecrows turned out to be excellent poker teachers!”
“Plus,” added Mrs. Henderson, “giant Mr. Whiskers has been the best pest control we’ve ever had. No mouse dares come within fifty feet of a cat the size of a small building.”
Merlin looked around at his village, taking in all the lingering effects of his magical sneezing rampage. The scarecrows were indeed playing poker with a group of villagers, the bread from Beatrice’s shop was performing synchronized swimming routines in the fountain, and Mr. Whiskers was lounging in the town square like a furry, purring parade float, occasionally swatting at non-existent laser pointers.
“You know,” Merlin said, smiling at the cheerful chaos around him, “I think I’m going to like having normal sneezes again.”
“Actually,” said a familiar voice behind him, “about that…”
Merlin turned to see Professor Cornelius Snotworthy himself approaching, looking exactly like someone who had spent decades studying magical nasal maladies. He was a thin, nervous-looking man with wild hair and a pair of spectacles that seemed to be held together with magical tape.
“Professor Snotworthy!” Merlin exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard about your case through the magical academic network,” the Professor explained. “Quite remarkable, really. Most severe case of unicorn horn-induced magical sneezing I’ve ever documented. I was hoping to interview you for the second edition of my book.”
“Of course,” Merlin said. “Though I should mention that I’ve been cured, thanks to your book’s instructions.”
“Yes, about that,” Professor Snotworthy said, looking uncomfortable. “There’s been a small error in the book. A typo, really. Quite embarrassing.”
Merlin felt a familiar sinking sensation in his stomach. “What kind of typo?”
“Well, you see, the cure I described—the dragon sneeze, phoenix tears, and backwards-growing daisies during a full moon? That’s actually the cure for magical hiccups that cause random teleportation. I should know, since that’s my condition.”
“Then what’s the cure for magical sneezing?” Merlin asked, though he was beginning to suspect he didn’t want to know the answer.
“Time,” Professor Snotworthy said apologetically. “The condition typically resolves itself after about four to six weeks. Though in rare cases, it can last up to three months.”
Merlin stared at the Professor for a long moment, processing this information. “Are you telling me that I went through all of that—the dragon preserve, the phoenix sanctuary, dealing with Grumpelstiltskin—for nothing?”
“Not for nothing!” Professor Snotworthy said quickly. “Your case has provided invaluable data for magical sneeze research! Plus, you’ve had quite an adventure, made several new friends, and brought joy to an entire village!”
Merlin looked around at Bumbleshire again, taking in the smiling faces of his neighbors, the cheerful chaos of his magical mishaps, and the general atmosphere of celebration and community that had sprung up around his condition.
“You know what?” he said finally. “You’re right. It wasn’t for nothing.”
Just then, he felt a familiar tickle in his nose. But this time, it was just a regular, non-magical tickle.
“Achoo,” he sneezed, and nothing magical happened at all.
It was the most satisfying sneeze of his entire life.
“Well,” said Beatrice Crumplebottom, “I suppose that means the party’s over.”
“Actually,” said Merlin, grinning as he watched the marching bread perform an elaborate water ballet in the fountain, “I think the party’s just getting started.”
And indeed, the celebration continued well into the night, with the dancing scarecrows providing entertainment, Mr. Whiskers serving as a comfortable seating area for the elderly villagers, and the rainbow fountain providing refreshments for everyone. Professor Snotworthy stayed to document the lingering effects of Merlin’s magical sneezing, Grumpelstiltskin arrived fashionably late with an enormous gingerbread cake, and even Byron the dragon showed up to perform a dramatic poetry reading about the transformative power of friendship and nasal passages.
As for Merlin McSniffles, he never did get his magical sneezing back, though he occasionally missed the chaos and excitement it had brought to his life. He did, however, develop a reputation as the most effective party planner in the kingdom, since his experience with magical mishaps had given him an unparalleled understanding of how to create controlled chaos for entertainment purposes.
He also made good on his promise to Byron, returning to the Dragon Preserve once a month to sneeze on the dragons (using a carefully controlled spell that mimicked his old condition) so they could continue their musical performances. The Dragon Preserve concerts became so popular that they had to start selling tickets, and Byron eventually published a book of poetry about the transcendent nature of musical expression in reptilian form.
Chuckles the phoenix started a comedy club at the Phoenix Sanctuary, where she told jokes while wearing her bow tie and top hat from Merlin’s sneeze. She became quite famous in magical circles for her unique brand of phoenix humor, which involved a lot of puns about burning up and being reborn.
Grumpelstiltskin kept his cheerful disposition and turned his property into a bed-and-breakfast called “The Happy Ogre Inn,” where the gingerbread house became a major tourist attraction and the backwards-growing daisies were declared a protected magical species.
And Mrs. Henderson’s cat, Mr. Whiskers, remained elephant-sized and became Bumbleshire’s official mascot, appearing at parades, festivals, and civic events. He also developed a profitable side business as a tourist attraction, charging visitors fifty copper pieces for the chance to pet a giant cat who purred loud enough to be heard in the next county.
As for the village of Bumbleshire itself, it never quite returned to normal, and the villagers decided they didn’t want it to. The rainbow fountain became a permanent fixture, the scarecrows continued their poker games (and were surprisingly good at it), and the marching bread evolved into a full-fledged performance troupe that toured neighboring villages on weekends.
And sometimes, on quiet Tuesday mornings when the sun was shining and the birds were singing, Merlin McSniffles would stand in his garden and think about his adventure. He would remember the panic and chaos of his magical sneezing, the friends he had made along the way, and the joy he had accidentally brought to so many lives.
Then he would smile, take a deep breath of the clean morning air, and sneeze a perfectly normal, non-magical sneeze that did nothing more than clear his sinuses and make him feel refreshed.
And somehow, that was exactly the kind of magic he needed.
The End