The Beach Warlock Requires No Chain For His Board

Barley, a dog, sniffs a large, weathered piece of driftwood that leans against a bike rack, as if it was left there as someone’s vehicle.

I haven’t the foggiest idea where this very substantial hunk of wood came from, or why it was left to occupy a slot in this bike rank, but I can’t imagine the real story is as amusing as the prospect that, lacking a particular obscure tome, the Beach Warlock surfed across the sky all the way from the coast atop a raw wood board and was, at Barley as I passed, inside this library combing the stacks for a sufficiently ancient edition.