Dog Days

by John Levitt

  “Oh, that’s right. Your little Ifrit attacked me before I could get to that part. The jewels. I was going to trade them with you.”

  “For what?” I was completely lost.

  “For him, of course.” She pointed at Lou. “You have no idea what you have there, do you? You think the gems I’ve made so far are impressive? Just wait until you see what I can do with him.”

  So. Lou really was special, even for an Ifrit. I’d always thought so, but figured it was just personal bias. That’s why Christoph had been so single-minded about getting me out of the way. Lou turned his head and glanced in my direction, and despite the awful situation, he still managed to looked smug.

  Christoph/Sherwood relaxed again and the creepy smile reappeared. “Anyway, I thought you might like to indulge me in a little game of ‘Who’s got the power?’ since you seem to be so desperate to be rid of me.”

  I found my voice, though it was a bit unsteady. “Forget it,” I said. “Not interested.”

  “No? You seemed eager enough to fight when I came over for a friendly visit and you attacked me without warning.”

  There didn’t seem much profit in arguing the point, so I didn’t. He/she waited until it was clear I wasn’t going to say anything, then continued.

  “You know, it’s interesting. When one’s mind is invaded it seems to be a most unpleasant experience. Or so I understand. Now Sherwood is surprisingly strong; I have to expend quite some effort to keep her in check. But the longer I have her, the less of her mind she’ll be able to recover when I leave. I would say about two more days and she’ll just about retain the capabilities of a four-year-old. One with learning disabilities. But I’m sure with enough time and therapy she’ll be able to have an almost normal life. Possibly even manage to live on her own.”

  “I’ll find you and I’ll kill you,” I said, almost in a whisper.

  “Ooh, scary. That won’t help Sherwood much though, will it now?”

  Eli put up his hand toward me with a gesture that meant, keep quiet.

  “Enough,” he said, “we get it. What exactly are you looking for?”

  “A Challenge. A real one, not the kiddy stuff like the ones in the park. Just myself and Mason. I’ll suck him dry, and after he’s dead I’ll have his power. And then…” She turned that fixed smile on Eli. “Now, you’re a smart fellow, Professor. I’m sure you know something about quantum physics, yes?” Eli said nothing, just regarded her, stone-faced. She went on. “When I gain Mason’s power, it will not only greatly increase my own, but will also jump me up to a whole other level—you know, the whole quantum leap thing? Then I won’t have to worry about your interference anymore. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. I’ll be as far above you as you are to ordinaries.” She pointed at Lou again. “And, as the added bonus, I’ll finally get little Bright-eyes here.”

  Lou was trembling with rage, unable to stay still, hopping from one paw to the other, burning with the desire to sink his teeth into the offending Christoph, torn by the knowledge that it was actually Sherwood sitting there and Christoph was out of reach. It was what we all were feeling.

  “I told you, I’m not playing,” I said. “Pick on somebody else.” I glanced pointedly at Victor, just to see his reaction.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she said. “Those days are over. Before I had power, you hardly even noticed me, did you? All of you. Strutting around, high-level talents. You make me sick.”

  So this wasn’t totally about power and money after all. It was also about revenge, and a lot about Christoph feeling dissed. How very high school. Then I remembered that feeling dissed was precisely the reason many young men in our fair city gun each other down in the streets.

  “Well, if you don’t want to play I guess I can’t make you,” she said, then leaned back in the chair, spread her legs wide, slipped her hand underneath her skirt, and began stroking herself.

  “Ahh,” she said, in a voice still devoid of feeling. “That’s nice. Certainly better than this.”

  As she spoke, she grabbed the little finger of her right hand with her left hand and bent it back viciously. Before any of us could react there was a muffled crack, and when she let go, the finger remained at an unnatural angle. Victor, who was closest, jumped to her side and clamped his hand around her wrist. She laughed again, that same creepy heh-heh-heh sound.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t do that again. Maybe a seizure, though. A grand mal episode can be very impressive. Sometimes, bones can even break. She can still feel all of it, you know, although I myself can block out the pain. A useful skill, don’t you agree?”

  “You win,” I said. “Where and when?”

  “Not so fast,” said Eli, lumbering over quickly. “You are the challenged party, Mason. You’re the one who gets to pick the time and place.”

  “Sorry, this isn’t open to bargaining,” Christoph/Sherwood informed him.

  “I’m not bargaining. I’m just reminding you of the rules governing contests. Those rules have come down through the centuries; they’re in force for a reason. If you don’t want to abide by them, why, I guess you don’t have to, but if you ignore them it could affect the power transfer you’re hoping for.”

  Christoph/Sherwood considered that for a while.

  “You know,” she said, “you might be right. Considering Mason’s complete lack of control over his ability, it hardly matters anyway. So sure, whatever you want.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Eli. “Noon. Where doesn’t matter; Mason will create his own personal reality space for the contest.”

  That was news to me. I hoped Eli knew what he was doing. Of course, so far his track record had been spotty at best.

  “Mason, do you have a preference as to a place to meet?” Eli continued. I shook my head no. “What about McClaren Park, then? Up by the water tower. Neutral territory. It’s out of the way and easy to shield.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  Christoph/Sherwood got out of the chair and stood up. “Until tomorrow, then,” she said.

  “Hold on,” said Eli. “What about Sherwood?”

  “Oh, I’ll bring her with me. You can have her back then, but I’ll keep the psychic connection open until the contest. So if anything unexpected happens before then…” She drew a finger across her throat in the classic throat-cutting sign, gave us another bright and horrible smile, and walked out into the night. After she left, we just stood there in silence staring at each other. Eli finally broke the silence.

  “I would never have believed it,” he said. “Never. No one can possess another person, especially another practitioner. I would have bet my life on it.”

  “Good thing you didn’t,” said Victor.

  I didn’t want to think about it. The invasive nature of a possession was too grotesque to contemplate. Besides, we had pressing business.

  “Not to change the subject,” I said, “but I have a question. Purely academic. What chance do I have to live through this?”

  “Hard to say,” said Eli, ever the optimist. “But I do have an idea.”

  “So do I. Let’s show up early and ambush him. Three to one are better odds than this one-on-one battle he wants to set up.”

  “Won’t work,” Victor said. “You heard him. He’s going to keep an open link with Sherwood. Even if we surprise him, his death while linked will destroy her mind, if not kill her outright. You’re just going to have to go through with this duel.”

  “Well, as long as that’s settled.” I rubbed my eyes, which felt like there were grains of sand in them. “But how do you expect me to pull this off?” I complained. “Christoph is strong, even stronger than before. My little tricks aren’t going to help me much if he can just squash me like a bug. And by the way, Eli, just how do I go about creating this personal reality space you mentioned? You remember the jungle Christoph created in that Challenge we saw? I can’t match that. I can’t do anything close to that.”

  “Sure you can,” he assured me. “Maybe you can�
�t just whip up any illusion that strikes your fancy, but there is a way you can create a realistic locale, a pocket world, in fact. With my help, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t be that difficult. All you need to do is this: Find in your memory a place you know well, somewhere you’ve spent a lot of time, somewhere Christoph doesn’t know. Maybe a summer vacation spot or something like that.”

  Like I had a summer vacation spot. Eli rolled on, oblivious to my expression.

  “Once you have it clearly fixed, Victor and I will help pull it out of your mind—you won’t have to create anything; you’ll just be actualizing a memory.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then you’ll have the upper hand. Christoph will find himself in an unfamiliar environment, but you’ll know every twist, turn, nook, and cranny.”

  “You make it sound so cozy. Okay, I see how that would help, but Christoph still has more than enough power to make up for my home court advantage.”

  “For the hundredth time, stop underestimating your ability. Besides, there’s a part two. You know that project I’ve been working on? The one you always kid me about? Well, I don’t quite have it yet, but I’m close.”

  “How close? And what is it?”

  “A few glitches. It’s a deadening spell. Thought to be impossible, but it’s not. When activated, no talent in the vicinity will operate, yours or anyone else’s. That should certainly level the playing field—if it works properly.”

  “Ahh. That word ‘if’ again.”

  “Sorry,” said Eli, somewhat miffed. “You want to give me a couple more weeks to fine-tune it?”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “So how would this work?”

  “With Victor’s assistance, I’ll construct a simple artifact and imbue it with the necessary magical deadening properties. Then, at the optimal time, you simply deploy it.”

  Whenever Eli starts pontificating in over-the-top academic speak, it means either he’s very much at ease or very much worried. I don’t think he felt much at ease.

  “What about the other thing?” I asked. “You honestly think I can create some memory world?”

  “With our help. What you need to do now is to go home, get some sleep, and spend as much time as possible fixing the memory of whatever place you choose firmly in your mind. Not just the visuals, but sounds, smells, emotions—the entire gestalt. The more you can envision it, the more complete it will be.”

  “Well, that makes sense,” I said. “And how long will it last?”

  “Until it’s served its purpose. Long enough for you to defeat Christoph. When you do, the construct will dissolve and you’ll return here.”

  “And if Christoph comes out on top?” Victor helpfully inquired.

  “Well, that won’t be so good.”

  Short and succinct. “What if my memories have grown stale and I can’t come up with anything useful?” I asked.

  “Then you’re liable to end up in a featureless nether-world—with Christoph standing right alongside you and nowhere to hide.”

  “Point taken. I’ll do my homework. One more question—why me? I know he wants Lou, but surely he could get the power he wants from someone else without all this bother.

  “Well, I think he really doesn’t like you,” Eli said. “That has a lot to do with it. But also, it’s about your power and your lack of it. Remember how I’m always telling you about your potential?”

  “How can I forget?”

  “Well, it’s real, but you’ve never bothered to develop it. So you’re vulnerable, way out of proportion to the amount of power you possess. When he kills you—”

  “When?”

  “Speaking hypothetically. If he kills you, he’ll get the power boost he’s looking for. Sadly, if he were to kill me, he wouldn’t get a whole lot. Victor would provide him with what he needs, but I don’t think he wants to go up against him even with his tremendous power edge. Victor is dangerous.”

  That gave me a lot of confidence. Now Victor was looking smug.

  “I see.” There wasn’t much else to say. “What time do you want me over at the house?”

  “8:00 a.m.,” Victor said. “And try for once to be on time. We’ll need some extra time to get you ready. I’ll take care of the mess here. Just be there by eight.”

  * * * *

  By the time I got home, it was way past midnight, and the longest day of my life still wasn’t over. I was bone weary, but I brewed some coffee and sat at the table in the kitchen, trying to think. Actually, trying to stay awake. This wasn’t going to work; I wasn’t that good at remembering things anyway, and being tired made it all the more difficult. I can remember jazz tunes I haven’t played in years note for note, but when it came to visualizing past scenes and landscapes I was a bust. I looked over at the bed, which lay there invitingly. Maybe if I could lie down for just a moment and close my eyes. That way, images could flow from my subconscious.

  I kicked off my shoes and stretched out full-length. Louie looked dubiously at me, especially when I pulled up a blanket to keep out the chill. Usually he would have quickly dove underneath, but this time he sat staring, as if he understood that my taking a nap right now might not be the best idea. His eyes were deep and concerned, and God knows what thoughts were swirling around behind them. Then he seemed to come to some sort of decision. He cocked his head sideways and opened his mouth. My heartbeat sped up. This was crisis time after all. Now I knew he wasn’t just an ordinary Ifrit. Maybe he’d broken through to a new level of consciousness. Maybe, this time, he finally was going to speak.

  He sneezed twice, hopped up beside me, turned around twice, wedged himself against my hip, and closed his eyes. Oh well, what did I expect? I mean, he was a dog, after all. Sort of.

  As soon as I closed my eyes, I knew in my heart I wasn’t going to be reflecting or remembering a whole lot. I could feel the weight of my weariness washing over me. Still, I managed to convince myself that I wasn’t going to fall asleep, right up to the moment I drifted off. And then I dreamed.

  Seventeen

  In my dream, it was dark and I was lost. I could barely see, but I could hear Louie barking from somewhere up ahead. I focused on the sound and followed, sometimes losing him but always picking up the sound of his distinctive yelp sooner or later. As I turned and twisted, areas of light started appearing, bright cracks in the dark world. I could hear him just beyond one of the openings and I rushed through. Then, like a movie jump cut, the scene shifted.

  I was sitting in a boat, an eight-foot dinghy with a three-power Evinrude engine attached to the stern. It swayed gently, anchored in a flooded salt marsh of reeds and tangled eel grass. The summer sun beat down with stifling power, but it didn’t bother me. I was wearing only a pair of shorts and my skin was darkly tanned. Suddenly I understood I was in a dream, so the realization that I was now ten years old wasn’t much of a surprise. I was back on the island where my grandparents had lived. A couple of miles from this marsh was the boat dock, and a half mile farther up the road would be their gray-shingled house.

  I had never had such a vivid dream. The smell of the marsh filled my nostrils, that fecund mixture of salt, mud, fish, and cloying vegetation. It was strong, but not unpleasant. A reek of primal life, the edge of the sea where water bleeds into land, the zone that is neither and both. Sandy hillocks covered with saw grass poked their way up through the water every few yards. A black-crowned night heron stood motionless fifty yards away, head pointed up, almost invisible in the tall rushes. A black skimmer knifed through the shallows, dragging its bill through the water. Crustaceans no larger than a pencil eraser swirled around the dirty water sloshing in the bottom of the boat. Except for the slap of water against the side of the boat and the sound of the wind blowing through the marsh reeds, it was silent.

  An instant later, I had forgotten I was dreaming. I pulled up anchor, coiled the anchor rope in the boat, and started up the outboard motor. I cranked the m
otor to one side, spun the boat around, and headed back toward the dock. I knew it was vital that I get home, although in the typical fashion of dreams I had no idea why.

  When I reached the dock, I bypassed it and steered for the beach, cutting the engine and tilting it up as the water shoaled. I rowed the last ten feet with a pair of battered oars, jumped out of the boat, waded to the shore, and pulled the boat up onto the sand.

  Another jump cut. I was passing by the abandoned orchard on the other side of the island. Trees of stunted apples and Seckel pears crowded together. A tangle of raspberry and blackberry bushes loaded with both green and ripe fruit formed a thorny border along one side. I stopped to pick a few, and the more I ate, the hungrier I became. The sweet juice ran down my chin and stained my fingers. Once again I realized I was dreaming, reliving the happiest days of my life.

  At ten years old, summer is a timeless season, stretching out endlessly, the old school year nothing more than a distant memory, the year to come impossibly distant. Girls were vaguely interesting, but certainly of no true importance. The entire island was mine to explore, days filled from dawn till dusk. No regrets about yesterday; no worries about tomorrow. My nights were taken up by the discovery of an old Martin guitar which belonged to my grandfather, but the guitar was not yet the obsession it would later become. Magic, like sex, would be mostly a closed book until puberty, but I hung on every word on the rare occasions when my grandfather told me late-night stories of his earlier life. I didn’t realize it until years later, but he had been a powerful practitioner once, one who retired to a quiet life filled with birds and fish and plants. He was in truth very much like Geoffrey, except that instead of playing evasive word games he fished and grew summer squash.

  Jump cut. Now dusk, standing outside my grandparents’ house, once again swept up in the dream, awareness gone. The stained and weathered shingles spoke of home as light streamed through the open windows on the ground floor. The sweet smell of things baking in the oven, bread or cookies or brownies, stole out into the evening air. I ran up the three steps to the porch, avoiding the top step which always sagged as if about to break, reached for the front door handle and stopped, paralyzed, seized with that unaccountable dread which so often inhabits the dream world. I could hear the sound of muffled voices and occasional laughter, but I could not force myself to turn the door handle. Something started leaking onto my face from the porch roof, something warm and wet and slightly viscous. I was afraid to look up, afraid that it might be blood, or something worse. Panicked, I threw open the door in desperation. The hallway stretched out in front of me, longer then it should, and then—