by Sevan Paris
“Prose had a bunch of floods back in the 1800’s, before the Rickamauga Dam was built. People were tired of seeing everything float off, so they did the only thing they could in the meantime: built up the city. Everything that was at ground level—plus two or three more stories—was buried, bricked up and forgotten about. A bunch of Sayers later Magicked the shit out of Old Prose to keep it hidden. Only Sayers or people with the chalk can get in. And even then, you have to know where to be.”
I start to resist the idea, to say there is no way something this big could have gone hidden under everybody’s collective noses for so long. Then I think about all the crap Liberty did without anybody knowing and don’t say a damn thing.
Kids run up to us, looking through a storefront window on the other side of Ember. We turn and see Magicked pencils frantically writing by themselves, as if guided by invisible hands. “They have a pencil for every subject!” says one little girl to another.
“If Magick works by using words, how about just … stuff? Like these pencils. Or this necklace.”
“Magickal objects have words written on or carved into them.” She points at the pencil closest to us. I can just barely make out some gold letters on its side. “Sayers put them there, infusing them with a specific power and meaning. The person that reads them aloud then gets to use whatever Magick is inside.”
“Why make them? What do people get out of it?”
“What do you mean? They get money.”
I sigh.
“What’s the matter?” Ember says with a laugh. “Bit too normal for you?”
“Something like that.”
“Does that mean you don’t want one?”
“Oh no, I want one.” I reach into my pocket, fishing for money that I hope is there.
“Come on.” Ember puts her hand on my forearm, grin still on her face. It looks nice and a little unusual. Like she doesn’t do it much. “We’ll buy you one on the way back, cowboy.”
An old woman steps between us. “Our children need to do their homework to learn!” she shrieks. She wears a blue dress and holds a picket sign displaying a pencil with a slash through it. “How else will they grow to be responsible citizens? How else will—” a ringing cell phone stops her short. “Excuse me,” she says, holding up a finger. She pulls a ringing cell phone out from her bra and opens it. “Hello? Yes, this is she …” A mouth morphs from the sign and resumes the tirade in the woman’s stead, using the same, shrilly voice: “Our children need to do their homework to learn!”
I step around the old woman and her sign, rushing to catch up with Ember. “Are there other places like this one? Others that have …” I gesture around us.
She nods. “We call them Hideaways.”
Put a lot of thought into that one.
“There’re some in other countries, on other planets—” she steps sideways to let a family of blue people, about three feet high, pass—“and other dimensions.”
“Wait, so Magick exists everywhere? Not just here?”
“It’s called different things in different places, but the way it’s used—the way it’s accessed is all the same: Words on lips. Words on objects.”
“So not everyone here is …”
“Oh no, most of them aren’t Magicked. They just like to be around it.”
Another crowd forces me to stop. A man wearing a starry cloak and a pointed hat dazzles them with a miniature fireworks show immediately above our heads. He moves a wand back and forth, blue and yellow sparks following his motions. One firework breaks free from the rest, streaking over my head and then straight into the air. It screams up, up, up until finally exploding with a chest thumping boom. Sparks flitter into the swirling mist thinly covering the sky. The old man bows for the audience. They clap loudly, briefly drowning out the four foot squirrels playing folk music on the roof of a place called Obi’s Magick Shoppe.
I tap Ember’s shoulder and point up “How is there a sky down here? Shouldn’t it be concrete? Or dirt? Or anything other than sky?”
“Rules don’t really apply down here”
Does she not realize that she has been spouting ‘rules’ for the past ten minutes?
The squirrels resume playing, with even more gusto than before, and Ember nods in their direction. “We’re here,” she says, stepping through the open doorway. She closes it behind us, muffling the sound of the crowd and the music overhead.
Inside, is a dimly lit shop with rich earth tones. Metal, wood, and stone knick-knacks cover every shelf and every corner.
“Obi?” Ember yells to the back of the store.
Beads rattle from behind the counter and out steps a black man in his late fifties, parting a twirling cloud of incense. He’s just under six feet, medium build, sports a goatee, and wears rich burgundy and yellow robes. “Ah, Ember Rose,” he says through a Nigerian accent. “It ‘as been too long.”
She steps up to the glass counter, smirking. “I was just in here yesterday.”
“An’ I was saddened by your leaving.” He inflects syllables at odd places. “How can I help you? Back for more charms to keep you hidden?”
“Is that an Optimus Prime?” I say, pointing to a toy truck on the counter. “Like, an original one from the 80’s?”
Obi smiles. “More or less. You may look at it if you weesh, but be very careful.” He wags a finger. “It is a collector’s item.”
Grinning like an eight-year old, I grab the truck and try to fold out the legs and arms. I flip Optimus Prime over and over, like I’m trying to figure out a Rubik’s Cube. “It doesn’t transform?”
Obi gives me a toothy grin, as if I’ve said something funny. Ember rubs her forehead.
“Wait, what does this mean …” On the bottom of the red and blue truck, right where the manufacture’s date is stamped, is a Latin word. I read it out loud, before I can even think of the consequences: “Novo?”
With a series of nasally hums, Optimus Prime transforms all by himself.
I yelp at the wiggling autobot bouncing between my hands. I pull it close, desperately trying not to drop it. It fidgets like a restless puppy.
Obi looks from me to Ember. “What is ‘dis boy you have brought to my shop? He does not understand Mageeck?”
Ember sighs and yanks the flailing toy out of my arm. “Novo!” She tosses Optimus back on the counter before he finishes transforming. “He’s the one I told you about. The one I Magicked.”
“You did not say he was a Noob!”
“Seriously,” I say. “You guys use that word down here?”
“We use all words down here!” he says, every other word a squeak. “Ember … why? He ‘as no respect for language! No responsibility!”
This individual is criticizing YOUR use of language?
“I wasn’t about to take my chances with Mystick or Tommy,” Ember says.
“Better them ‘dan dis-dis boy!”
“Hey, here is an idea,” I say. “How about we all pretend like I’m standing right here, huh?”
Gets old quickly, doesn’t it?
“And stop with ‘ ‘dis boy’ crap. I’ve saved this city several times over in the past year—including everything above, below or between it.”
Obi leans over the counter and points at me: “You are but a worm playing with gods! You have no business being here. Ember can handle ‘dis on her own!”
“Hey, Obi—” she puts her hand on top of his, lowering his finger—“back off. He’s here because of me—for me. So unless I’m not welcome here anymore—”
“Ember, don’t lump me in with ‘de rest of those imbeciles!”
“Don’t make me.”
“Ahhh!” Obi whips his hand through the air between us. “Wait here. I have what you’re looking for in ‘de back. And feel free to browse the clothing in the corner while I am gone. There ‘es no reason to show off everything God gave you.” He vaguely gestures at Ember’s chest before disappearing behind the clattering beads.
Ember groans und
er her breath and zips up her black hoodie. “Has he even seen the getup Mystick wears?”
“Why did you say that to Obi?” I say. “I thought you didn’t want me here either.”
“I didn’t want you here unless you really wanted to be here. This stuff is too dangerous unless you’re ready to go full throttle.”
“Did I not prove that at the diner this morning?”
“No, you proved it in the alley earlier.”
My mouth moves, trying to put it all together.
“Look, see this?” She rolls up her left sleeve. A series of tattoos covers her forearm and disappear into the sleeve at her elbow. They look like some kind of language, with intricately patterned curves, lines, and dots.
“Are those the Henna Tattoos you almost killed me over?”
“Don’t be melodramatic. I woke up one morning and there they were. Found out what they meant and read it out loud. Then all this stuff I can do—with the swords and my eyes—it was there too.” Ember tugs her sleeve back, smoothing it out. “I was flipping out, looking for answers, until an Indian named Eldritch finally found me. He explained about being a Ward, what it meant. That the Magick chose me. Everybody hated me for it. And hated him too.”
“Why, what’s the big? You weren’t the only Ward.”
“I was the only one like me. Other Wards, like Tommy, studied for years to up their chances of the Magicks choosing them. But Eldritch’s spell was different. He created it to choose a Ward based on what I had the potential to do—not what I had already done.”
Another series of fireworks thumps and fizzles outside.
“I’m telling you all this,” she rubs her eyes, “so you’ll understand me when I say this is the only big thing I’ve ever been responsible for—and people have been trying to take it away from me since the day I got it. Like I’m not, like I never can be, good enough. It pisses me off. When you said all of that stuff in the alley—about having the right to see this through—it sort of reminded me about how it feels.” She shrugs. “I just couldn’t do it to another person.” Her blue eyes turn away, desperately searching for something to look at. “Especially someone who got involved in this because he was trying to help.”
How fortunate that you’re letting us help with the situation that you forced us into. The pinnacle of generosity, this one.
“Quiet,” I say.
She flicks her red hair around, looking at me. “What?”
“I said quite the thing to think about.”
Her forehead crinkles.
“Ah, here we are,” Obi says, reappearing from the back. Ember straightens her back and hardens her eyes.
“ ‘Dis book was very hard to find. Old Obi had to call in a lot of favors.” Obi places a musty book on the counter between us. It’s large as a man’s torso and leather bound. He leafs through yellowed pages and stops near the middle.
“And here it is,” he says. He turns the book around and points to the large, Latin words: “The Legacy of Token. Commissioned some fifty years ago by a concerned father who didn’t want his daughter to be a Sayer. ‘De boy—”
“Seriously, dude?”
He sighs and points at me. “You will place your hand upon it, read the inscription, and ‘de Magick will be pulled out of you. Ember then destroys it, pulling the Magick into her.”
“Destroy it,” I say. “If it has to be destroyed, how is it still around? The previous Ward didn’t want the Magick back?”
Obi shakes his head. “It does not say. Maybe the original Ward wasn’t around to return the power to.”
I lean over looking at the page. I don’t know why—I can’t read jack. “So this Token’s Legacy thing may have more power in it? Where does it go?”
“Tokeeeen’s Legacy,” Obi says.
“Token, that’s what a I said.”
“No-no, read my lips—Tokeeeeeeen.”
“I … what?”
“Tokeeeeee—”
Ember slaps her hand on the book between us. “Obi, if this thing has other Magicks in it, where do they go? I don’t want today to end worse than it started.”
“Well, there is no way to know for sure, but presumably ‘dey will only return if they belong to you. Only Eldritch’s power belonged to you, so that’s all you should receive.”
“Where is it?” I say.
“It resides in some tunnels under Old Prose. The ones that ‘de first Mindu refugees used from long, long ago.”
“Mindu?” I say.
“Little Gremlin looking things,” Ember says. “They were some of the first to travel here from other dimensions.”
Obi looks back and forth between the display case in front of him and the book. “Time is of ‘de essence. And Magick can carry you ‘dere quicker ‘dan your legs. I think I have everything needed to send two people ‘dere right here.”
“What, you just keep all the inter-dimensional portal stuff up front?” I say.
He looks at me, incredulously. “ ‘Dey are small idoms. Very esy to steal.” He pulls a jade green feather, several bags of powder, and a vial filled with a swirling liquid that glows blue and red. He places all of the contents into a large pestle, producing an odd smell. Like sulfur and cinnamon. “That will be eleven ninety-five,” he says, turning a dial on the bottom of the pestle.
“Seriously?” I dig into my pockets, hoping I’ll still have enough to buy a Magick pencil later for algebra. “All the stuff that’s going on right now, and you’re going to charge us?”
He shrugs. “A man ‘as to make a leeving.”
A bell rings at the front of the shop, announcing the entrance of the old woman with the picket sign. “What are you trying to pull on me?” she says. “The sign stopped working.”
“I did not sell you that sign.” Obi’s eyes narrow. “And you are not welcome here. Leave.”
Ember and I look at each other and then at Obi.
The old woman opens her mouth, like she is ready to let loose with a tirade, then closes it again and drops the sign. She takes three steps from the door and begins to change: the Blue dress blackens and shortens into a cloak; grey hair falls to her shoulders and changes to brunette; wrinkles smooth to reveal a woman in her early forties.
“Sometimes we have to go where we are not welcome, Obi,” says Ms. Mystick.
CHAPTER FOUR
The first time I saw Ms. Mystick in person was at HEROES tower on the night of that Deathbot craziness. She never said anything—just rubbed her temples and looked around the room with bloodshot eyes. She didn’t join in when the others came after me either, which was mysteriously weird … but, then again, mysteriously weird was par for the course for her.
The Superhero fan sites don’t have a lot of stuff about Ms. Mystick. And it’s not for lack of trying. She first appeared fifteen years ago, when HEROES was fighting some big tentacled thing, trying to crawl its way out of the Tennessee River. iWitness News showed crazy close footage of the creature’s grinding beak chomping cars in half and its thirty foot eyeball reflecting spotlights back at the police boats. Eyewitnesses gave inconsistent counts of the tentacles, but there were anywhere from fifty to eighty around the beak, all thrashing and pulling at the Rickamauga Dam. By the time HEROES got there, the creature had managed to pull itself more than halfway out of the river.
The HEROES roster back then was Hunter (the old one, not the new guy), Fusion, Tantrum, Amazon, and Liberty. The tentacles slapped away Liberty and Amazon. Tantrum’s Superspeed wasn’t super enough to dodge a piece of the dam. The rockets, freeze rays, and laser netting from the Hunt-Jet had no effect. And Fusion was swallowed whole by the chomping beak. A brief swelling and bubbling in the creature’s side was the last anybody saw of him.
A wing started to appear from under the glowing, churning water. People panicked more and screamed louder. Even the camera guys from iWitness News started to run.
Then Ms. Mystick showed up.
She hovered above the creature, the news cameras, and the other HE
ROES on a flat circle of light. Hieroglyphics spun rapidly around the glowing circle, adding an even cooler sense of what the papers later called “arcane.” Mystick uttered a few words—the cameras weren’t close enough to tell just what she said—and the creature imploded out of existence.
Just like that.
Prose, the country, heck—the world—was stunned by what happened that day. Everyone was used to Superpowers. There was a general understanding to it. And even if most couldn’t get behind the specific science of Liberty’s flight or Tantrum’s speed, they felt comfy knowing somebody else could. But this was something new. Something nobody could explain. And it was something that scared people as much as it fascinated them.
A few days later, after Fusion’s funeral, Liberty went on national television, saying that what crawled out of the river wasn’t alien, inter-dimensional, from the future, the past, or any of the stuff that HEROES was used to dealing with on a daily basis. No, it was something terrifyingly and mind boggingly new: It was Magickal (CNN ran a caption at the bottom of the screen so that everyone knew how to spell it).
Liberty stated that if the experience proved anything, it was that HEROES didn’t know how to deal with the Magickal, but thankfully that was all about to change. He then formally announced Ms. Mystick as HEROES latest member. Mystick stepped into view, arms crossed, full of character and charisma—and she was a total knock out. She was dressed in a black bikini number, largely open in a bullet shape from her throat to below her belly button, exposing the inside curves of two double D’s. Straps crisscrossed at her thighs, just barely covering what needed to be covered. Strong, bare legs lead all the way to two black high heels. Gold buttons ran up each side of the opening at her chest.
From then on, people spent a lot more time talking about her outfit than the Magicks she used (the chicks on The View spent an entire episode talking about Mystick’s lack of tan lines; Tina Fey accused her of using Magick to hold up her breasts; David Letterman wondered why her nipples never stood up in cold weather—because he’d looked REALLY hard).
I never put much thought into why she dressed the way she did. I mean, I thought about her body plenty, especially during puberty. But I never thought about why she put it out there. If HEROES did it just to distract the public from the nightmares Magick caused in the river that day, I gotta say, it was a pretty clever move.
