The staff came in the third week.
Nalwanga took him to the craftsman — a man named Kiggundu in the magical district, whose workshop had the quality of Ollivander's only older and less anxious, the smell of wood and resin and something magical that was specific to materials that had been worked with for a very long time.
'He will show you what is available,' Nalwanga said. 'Here, the practitioner chooses. The staff does not choose for you the way a wand does. You must know what you want.'
'I know what I want,' Ron said.
He found it in the third section of the workshop.
Mvule wood — the African teak, reddish-brown and dense. Cut to slightly taller than his height, which would become the right height as he grew into it. The grain ran in the specific pattern of a tree that had grown slowly in difficult conditions, the tight rings of something that had not had an easy existence and was stronger for it. It had been worked minimally — sanded smooth, the natural shape of the wood preserved in a slight curve that was not quite straight and was exactly right.
He picked it up.
The magic in it was not the directed magic of a wand — it resonated rather than channelled, the way a musical instrument resonated. He held it and felt his own magic move through it and come back changed, enriched.
'That one,' he said.
Kiggundu looked at the staff. Then at Ron.
'Mvule,' he said. 'Strong choice. It requires strength in return.' A pause. 'It is also the wood associated with endurance. With the long work. With things that take time to complete.' He looked at Ron. 'You are fourteen?'
'Yes,' Ron said.
Kiggundu nodded once, with the quality of a craftsman who had found the right match and was glad to see it, and began the fitting.