Firetale

by Dante Graves

  Chapter 22: The Magician & the Tower

  “I’ll be the moon when the sun goes down.”

  Otis Redding, “That’s How Strong My Love Is”

  When Zaches, in tears, stopped his car many miles away from the woods, Greg came to life. The body of the fire mage was full of unprecedented lightness, as if he’d just woken up from a sound and pleasant sleep. He felt no pain, although Greg was sure that the woodwose had given him a drubbing. He thought of the wound in his back and tried to feel it, but he felt strange. His muscles obeyed reluctantly, as if Greg were only a passenger in his own body. It seemed to him that his body, which used to be his own, was now a shell, separating him from the world. He wondered if this was a continuation of the nightmare he’d had when Martha was trying to save him from death. Or was the vision of Martha a hallucination?

  “It was not a nightmare, Greg,” said a female voice, interrupting the magician’s thoughts. He tried to determine from where the sound came, but the echo in his head got in the way.

  “Show yourself!” Greg demanded.

  “Alas, I can’t,” came again the melodious voice, calm, ancient, and wise. “Greg, calm down, let me go, and I’ll show you.”

  “Let you go?” The world before Greg’s eyes trembled and became dead, like a TV picture. The mage tensed, trying to regain control of his body, but some power gently and confidently stood in his way. Greg was not going to tolerate this, and his fingertips flashed with sparks. Flashed and went out. The same power that was crushing Greg in his own body damped them. Easily, without resistance, like a man extinguishing a candle.

  “Let me go, Greg.” The ancient voice was strangely familiar. Greg had heard it in a vision long ago. “Martha?”

  “I am no longer Martha, Greg,” the voice said softly. “I never was. But I did not remember. Now I am free. Relatively.”

  “What are you talking about?” Greg asked. “Where’s Martha?”

  “I was Martha. I held her body but did not remember who I really am. Let me go and I’ll show you.” The same mysterious force gently but firmly pressed on Greg’s mind, and he became a prisoner in his own body.

  “I am in you, Greg. I entered you, to chase away death. But the way back is closed for me now, because … because now I know who I am, and Martha”—the voice sighed—“Martha’s body disappeared. For a time, I’ll have to share your body with you, Greg. I do not like it as much as you, but I need a human shell. For a while. Until I find another. I will not hurt you.”

  During his life, Greg had rarely been afraid of anything or anyone. Ever since he had learned to use his abilities, his self-confidence bordered on arrogance. He had even met death with no fear—disappointment, perhaps, but not fear. Now the magician was frightened. Martha had disappeared, perhaps was dead. And he was a prisoner in his own body, because it had been taken by … by whom?

  “You’re not a prisoner, Greg,” the voice said with some emotion. “Martha has disappeared, you’re right. But part of her is still with me.”

  “I don’t understand. Tell me everything.”

  “Everything is good in its season. We need to return to the circus and find Pietro. He will help you understand everything. I will tell you everything I remember.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “For the same reason you always believed. I love you, Greg. So I’ve come for you. That’s why I freed myself.”

  Greg was stunned. Surprise, disgust, and hope mingled on his face.

  Greg longed to talk to her, but the only words he could squeeze out were, “We need to find a car.”

  When the magician sat in the car, his first impulse was not to go to the circus, but to find Martha.

  “Why are we going to the circus?” he asked. “Why not find Martha first? You also need her body.”

  “I do not feel it,” the voice said wistfully. “I’m sorry.”

  Greg did not respond, he just started the car and drove out of the woods and onto the highway.

  “How do I find the way back?”

  “I’ll show you. I remember, and I know everything Martha knew.”

  The road was silent. The voice seemed to be giving Greg time to get used to the thought of losing Martha, at least the way the magician had known her. The unexpected neighbor inside Greg’s head did not, however, merely talk. It directed the fire mage’s hands at turns in the road. Initially, it took Greg by surprise, and he instinctively wrenched the steering wheel, trying to regain control over his body and the car, but he soon got used to it and allowed his “neighbor” to take control. This allowed the mage to clear his head. He found that although his new neighbor might, if necessary, take away his control over his own body by force, in his mind there was always a corner that the voice could not reach. In this corner the outside world seemed very far away, a memory so distant that it could not be distinguished from illusion. But it was possible to think there without fear that his thoughts would be an open book.

  Greg wondered about the voice saying that part of Martha was still with it. The voice was strange, not human, but Greg felt no lies in it. He still hoped he would be able to find Martha. That hope rose in him and he nearly steered the car off the road. Only his new neighbor’s intervention saved the car from disaster.

  At the circus encampment, Blanche and Black, who hadn’t slept a wink since Martha’s disappearance, were the first to noticed a rapidly approaching car. They called Mr. Bernardius, and went to meet the guests. They were very surprised when they saw Greg in the car that had disappeared along with Martha. He was alone. The magician braked within thirty meters of the perimeter of the circus lot, got out of the car, and almost ran to meet the ogres. Greg had never imagined he could be so happy to see their sullen, warty faces. The ogres did not experience a similar joy from the meeting. Greg had to stop running, so as not to bump into Blanche’s big hand extended in a warning gesture.

  “Hey, Black, I am glad to see you.”

  “I’m Blanche,” growled the ogre.

  “Well, that’s exactly what I said!” Greg tried to make a joke, but the faces of the brothers just grew more sullen.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes. No. Technically I’m alone. But not alone. It’s hard to explain.”

  The ogres’ faces became puzzled. Seeing how hard they were thinking, Greg tried to explain.

  “Guys, I need to see Pietro. He will explain everything.”

  “Let them in,” called Lazarus, quickly approaching. “What’s happened, Greg? Have you seen Martha?”

  “She’s with me. In some sense,” Greg’s explanation bewildered Mr. Bernardius. “Lord, let me talk to Pietro already!”

  Greg, Mr. Bernardius, Pietro, and Ino gathered in the big top. They all waited for the magician to begin his story, but Greg just opened and closed his mouth, not saying a word, as if the story he wanted to tell was so fantastic and confused that he did not know where to begin.

  “Martha found me at Ino’s shelter. But it was too late.” Greg spoke slowly and carefully, as if the fate of the entire world depended on it.

  “Go on,” Mr. Bernardius said gently.

  “I was dead,” Greg said, and before anyone could interrupt him, he added, “But she saved me. I do not know how. She has somehow entered my mind and”—he shrugged—“restarted me? But when I woke up, she was not there.” Greg did not look up from the floor the whole time he told his story, and his arms and shoulders were tense.

  “Do you know where she is?” asked Lazarus.

  “I know that her body, her physical being …” Greg took a breath as if he were about to jump into deep waters. “Her body is dead.”

  Questions rained down on Greg. All the words that they had kept inside gushed over Greg. He did not even try to answer their questions, listen to their assumptions, or accept their condolences. He was exhausted by his new neighborhood and his gloomy thoughts.

  “Shut up!” Greg snapped. The others were stunned by his anger and the sharpness of
his cry.

  “Part of Martha is in me. Or what was in Martha. Heck, I don’t know. She said that she wants Pietro to tell you.”

  “Why Pietro?” wondered Ino.

  For a moment, Greg turned away from the conversation; he looked like he was listening to something in the distance, not paying attention to what was happening around him. Then he turned back to the others. “She says only he can understand and translate what she would say.” Greg seemed like a student uncertain about a hint from his teacher. “So, Pietro, son of a bitch, listen carefully.”

  Something in Greg’s face subtly changed. It was relaxed, and his facial muscles seemed to have forgotten how to portray emotions. His eyes closed, and Greg looked like a deep sleeper or a corpse. When his eyes opened, there was no Greg anymore. From the mouth of the one who a moment ago had been the fire mage poured words in a strange language, ancient, like the sands of Babylon, incomprehensible to everyone except Pietro. It was a woman’s voice, deep, calming, and holding out hope, the voice of mother and defender. It spoke in a powerful monotone flow that made the listeners congeal and dissolve into it. Pietro’s face bore an expression of wonder as the voice spoke of things unprecedented, even for a highly experienced archivist who had studied ancient grimoires and served Lucifer. If Lazarus or Ino could have torn their eyes away from Greg’s transfigured face and looked at the chubby archivist, they would have noticed how his usually good-natured face, for the first time ever, expressed awe. The words were meant for Pietro, but Lazarus and Ino were captured by the rhythm of the ancient language and were desperately trying to understand what that part of Martha, now inside Greg, was saying. The ancient language made them forget about time. The world had become a deceptive fantasy, and at the center of it, and the source of truth, was the voice.

  After the final echo of the ancient words slipped away, and Greg’s face had lost the look of a man who had just visited someplace beyond the familiar world, Pietro needed time to regain his composure.

  “What did she say?” asked Lazarus. The tentmaster and the witch were shocked, and the meaning of what had happened was still not clear to them. Greg and Pietro looked at each other, as if to make sure that they had heard the same thing and correctly understood the meaning of what was said.

  “I do not know where to start,” the archivist murmured. “I need to check my records. I have heard about it, but never seen it.”

  “Martha isn’t a demionis,” Greg said grimly. “She is a goddess.”

  By the time Lazarus and Ino realized that what Greg had said was not a vulgar expression of admiration, Blanche and Black’s angry voices resounded outside, and then another voice, filled with rage and madness, rose up. Greg recognized the voice, although he had been sure he would never hear it again.

  Heart of Stone

  Record made on 06/05/1934

  Archivist: Aldred

  My old heart sank when we entered Arapahoe. It was a mining town, half extinct, grubby and somewhat black and gray, as if coal dust had seeped into every nook and cranny when the miners returned from the pit. We rode the short main street slowly, as the locals gazed upon us with incredulous and bleak looks. I’m old, so old that I sometimes think death forgot about me and might never remember. But there, in that town, I thought I had died and my soul had gone to Hell under the supervision of a mournful ghost, ancient and indifferent.

  We were not going to perform in this town. The destination was changed when we heard rumors that a spirit raged in the Arapahoe mine, at least according to the mine workers. Almost everyone had heard howls and growls, some even swore they saw red eyes and yellow fangs glowing in the dark. Some believed that the spirit looked like a beast. Others thought it looked like an Indian chief who once owned the land on which the city stands. Others argued that the spirit did not have flesh but looked like fog.

  We camped on the border of the city. I could not shake the feeling that the local people had shielded their town from the influence of time. A dim sun stood in the gray sky so long that I constantly checked my watch to make sure that sooner or later evening would come, we would perform, and then get the hell out of town. I talked Bernardius out of going to the mine—all my amulets were silent about the presence of any spirits nearby. I suspected that the mysterious spook was a local yarn that folks could retell each other, now and then embellishing or changing parts of the story, over a beer in the only bar in town.

  Yet I had a constant sense of foreboding. I did not share my worry with anyone in the circus, because I saw that the others behaved as usual. I went into my tent to make my regular records about how the day had gone, and did not leave until the beginning of the show later that evening.

  As far as I could tell from looking at the audience, the circus had attracted the entire town, a couple of hundred people. Mr. Bernardius decided to distribute free tickets, just to please the miners’ families. It was hard times, and I couldn’t blame him for wanting to brighten the lives of the local folks. In the light of artificial lamps under the tent, amidst the colorful fabrics of the canvas, their faces looked alive. I saw how interest and curiosity had replaced distrust, especially among the children.

  The show went well, although it was not outstanding. The spectators, to my surprise, clapped enthusiastically, even whistled appreciatively. I did not think that these locals would be capable of such a strong expression of feeling. In short, everything went as usual, so well that I slightly reproached myself for my silly misgivings earlier. With a light heart, I made a couple of records on the show and went to sleep.

  Sleeping in our circus is a real treasure, which anyone can lose at any time. Some demionis are active only at night. Sometimes our peace is violated by locals who want to sneak in to have another look at the monsters and freaks. From time to time on the busiest roads, we travel only when the moon rises, so as not to attract undue attention. So I was not surprised when that night in my tent Mr. Bernardius showed up. His look, however, was strange. Instead of the usual concentration on his face, I read puzzlement and something like joy. The ringmaster asked me to take pen and paper and follow him to the big top.

  In the big top, I discovered an amazing sight. Blanche and Black, grunting beamishly, were bent over a boy who was doing some hand gestures that enraptured the ogres. When Mr. Bernardius and I came closer, I realized the reason for the unusual behavior of the eternally gloomy brothers. The boy was showing them tricks. Blanche and Black could not see how the child managed to guess the cards they chose from the deck after shuffling it themselves. The little magician was amused by his unusual audience’s bewilderment, but with the diligence that only a child has, he tried to pose as a real illusionist.

  As we approached, the boy interrupted his own trick, and Lazarus asked him to explain again, this time for my benefit, how and why he was in the circus at this late hour. The boy introduced himself as Zack and announced that he wanted to offer his services as a magician to our circus. He loved our show, but Zack and his buddies all regretted the lack of magic tricks. There must be a magician in any circus, the boy asserted confidently. He was special, it was immediately evident. He was dressed modestly, almost poorly, like all the children I had seen at the show that evening. His clothes were the same gray and black colors as everything else in this city, with traces of dirt and grass on the elbows and knees. His straw-colored hair was cut short in the manner of most of the local men. But his face and eyes—those blue eyes reflected a lively mind and much confidence. Zack said he was nine, but for his age, he clearly lacked several kilograms.

  I was glad Mr. Bernardius had called me. Zack was not the first boy who had sneaked in after closing to look at our miracles. Blanche and Black packed off such types neatly and without regret. But Zack was the first who wanted to join our company. Of course, he was still a child and could not even imagine what our circus really was, and he had no chance. I planned to make Zack’s appearance comical in my archives, but, alas, it would be quite different. I understood why Mr. Bernardius
had not immediately kicked the boy out. Our circus had always lacked a spectacular magician. I’ve read in the archivist Faulkner’s records that there was a time when Lazarus himself tried to conjure. He diligently studied the illusionist craft, observed the performances of some other circuses’ magicians, but never achieved great success and soon abandoned the idea. Mr. Bernardius can do a trick or two. For example, he could pilfer my pocket watch, picking my pockets easily, but such skills were not enough for a stage.

  But Zack definitely had skills. The boy tried hard to convince us that he was worthy of being a magician in the circus. He showed a trick with a coin, which he threw from hand to hand until it was lost from sight, and then took it out of his nose. He showed us tricks with cards, mixing the deck so that it was divided by suits, then tore one of the cards into pieces and then put it back together. His tricks, of course, were not impressive. But a boy of his age, especially one who was small, was usually not able to cope with cards of the standard size—their fingers are too short and inflexible. Zack’s hands were unusually agile, and it was forgivable that his tricks lacked originality. After all, how many card tricks had a child in a remote mining town ever seen?

  Mr. Bernardius was adamant, but he was so touched by the boy’s naiveté and so impressed with his skills that he decided to give Zack a gift: a tour of the part of the circus that is hidden from the eyes of the audience. There, in the back of the big top, the artists prepare to enter the arena. It’s also where the demionis devoid of human appearance live. We all went together. Lazarus told our little magician about the demionis, among whom the boy was most impressed by the winged monkey, as if it was descended from the pages of the novels by Frank Baum. There were places in the back of the tent where Zack was not allowed, but we didn’t know that what is not allowed attracts children all the more.

  Next to the cage with the cactus cat, Zack asked us to tell him more about the creature, which was no surprise. A green-skinned cat the size of a large dog and covered with spikes is always popular with viewers. But as Mr. Bernardius and I were talking, the boy jumped up and ran into the darkest part of the backstage area, the entrance that we had warned him away from. We ran after him, but his size helped him glide like a shadow between boxes with props and cages with demionis.

  And when we heard a loud predatory hissing, I broke out into a cold sweat. At the end of the rows of cages, in the darkest corner, which we had specially fenced with boxes so that very little light penetrated there, was a cage with a medusa. As every archivist knows, it is not like the creature from Greek mythology; it has no snakes on its head and its legs are not joined at the tail. This creature remotely resembles a woman. But its body is hairless, its gray matte skin is like pearly scales, and its eyes have no pupils and are black as night. Oh, those eyes. Medusa is not like that in the myths, but it has a similar feature: its eyes are lethiferous. There is a gland in her eyes that secretes a poison that the medusa, sensing danger, squirts at the enemy. For demionis, medusa venom is not dangerous because it has no effect on the devil’s blood that runs in their veins. But the poison turns a man into stone; this legend does not lie.

  In the circus, the medusa’s head was covered with a thick leather bag with a hole for breathing just below the nose, and her hands were tied so that it could not rip the bag from its head. The medusa never enters the arena, and her bag is removed only during transfers and sometimes at night, when there are no people around. Zack did not see the medusa at the performance. Perhaps the unusual creature intrigued him. Probably the bag and shackles struck a deep chord in his heart, and he desired to help the creature in the cage.

  When we saw Zack, he was a stone statue, frozen in motion. In the statue’s hands was a crumpled leather bag, and his face expressed surprise and compassion. Poor boy, he had not even a moment to understand what had happened. I don’t think you will need detailed descriptions to understand the emotions that Mr. Bernardius and I felt at the sight of the petrified Zack. But we could not let grief cloud our minds. Sooner or later, they would begin to look for the boy, so it was necessary to get rid of any traces of his presence in the circus. With a sore heart, Mr. Bernardius ordered Blanche and Blake to take huge hammers and destroy the statue of Zack. The ogres crushed the stone with heavy blows, and when the pieces had become so small that they could be mistaken for small natural stones, the brothers shoveled them into bags and carried the bags to the local mine, where they poured them into the pit.

  The next morning, Zack’s father showed up at the circus, along with several local stalwarts. Someone had seen the boy running toward the circus the night before. Mr. Bernardius allowed these men to inspect the circus, and not finding any traces of the kid, the miners left. We left town a few hours later, having heard that the locals blamed the boy’s disappearance on the machinations of the spirit of the mine. Supposedly, on the night Zack disappeared, the mine was unusually noisy. Someone even heard loud but unintelligible grunts and growls, followed by the sound of falling stones.