The Un-Magician

by Christopher Golden

  “Did your father make these buildings?”

  Timothy paused outside the door and shrugged. “He helped with the framing, based upon my design. But I did the rest of it myself.”

  “It must have taken a great deal of time.”

  Timothy leaned the pole against the outer wall of the building. “Yes. But things take as long as they take. It isn’t as though I have other appointments to keep,” he said as he approached the closed door, also made from the grayish metal.

  If this had been any home in the many districts of Arcanum, the boy would have simply waved his hand in front of a mystical eye and the door would have swung wide, welcoming him. Leander narrowed his eyes to observe carefully as the boy lifted a latch, placed his palm against the door and pushed it open with his own power.

  “This is my workshop,” Timothy said proudly, beckoning him to step inside. With a heavy flap of powerful wings, Edgar flew in over their heads, barely able to find room to alight upon a table that was littered with unusual debris. “This is where I make the things I picture in my head.”

  To say that Leander was awestruck would have been an understatement. He cast a quick glance about the room, but that would simply not do, and so he began again, slowly surveying his surroundings. Everywhere he looked there was something that aroused curiosity. He saw stacks of wood of all sizes and shapes, some from the tree of the abundant Yaquis, and others of a finer cut, probably brought over from the world outside.

  There were large blocks of stone, as well as stacked bars and thin sheets of the same dark metal that made up the workshop’s four walls. All around the large chamber were worktables covered in tools at whose function Leander could only guess, and the strangest-looking contraptions that the mage surmised were Timothy’s inventions in various stages of completion.

  “Caw, caw!” Edgar cried, hopping about at the edge of a work-table. “Never seen anything like it, have you? Go on, admit it.”

  The rook was correct. There was something crude and primitive about the workshop, as though the corpse of the world had been flayed open to reveal its inner workings, and yet there was something breathtakingly beautiful about it as well.

  “Your familiar is proud of you, Timothy,” Leander said. “And I’m sure your father must have been as well. This is … it’s truly fascinating.”

  The mage continued to glance around, constantly discovering something that he hadn’t noticed the first time. At the rear of the chamber, he could see into another room where large rocks blazed white-hot in a stone-and-metal enclosure. Leander gathered that this furnace was the source for the plumes of smoke or steam he had seen from outside. Hungry Fire, he thought. Without access to the ghostfire, the boy bends Hungry Fire to his purpose.

  “Back there’s where I do most of my work with the metal,” Timothy said, apparently amused by his guest’s response to his workshop.

  Leander gazed around at the mostly incomprehensible contents of the main chamber. “You just think of these things?” he asked the boy as he picked up what looked like an attempt to fashion a bird’s skeleton from pieces of wood. “You just imagined this—and you built it?”

  The boy carefully took the wooden item from the mage’s hands, careful not to damage the delicate construction. “I’ve come to believe that most things that can be done with magic can be duplicated mechanically.”

  Leander watched with interest as Timothy manipulated a tiny lever of the skeleton’s framework and the wings on the device began to flap up and down. “This is just my model,” the boy explained, placing it down on the worktable for Edgar to see. “If things test out, I’ll build a much bigger version and be able to fly just as well as Edgar here.”

  The bird flapped his wings in agitation, apparently as startled by the boy’s declaration as Leander was.

  “And have you always had this gift?” Leander asked.

  Timothy shrugged shyly “My father encouraged me a lot. He brought me all the things I needed to create and survive here.” A pall seemed to fall over the boy, dispersing his excitement, as he was reminded that his father would never again visit the Island of Patience.

  “I think about what I want to do, and eventually a picture of the things I need to accomplish it forms in my head—then I build it,” he said matter-of-factly. He absently straightened some of the items on a nearby workstation.

  Absolutely wondrous, Leander thought. Denied the gift of magic, another ability had arisen in the boy to compensate; his very own, special kind of magic had developed.

  Leander wanted to inquire about more of the inventions and models in the workshop, but he was interrupted by the sound of a door rattling open at the back of the building. The thing that emerged from that open door startled him into silence, amazing him more than all the wonders around him combined. It came into the room pushing a wheeled cart loaded high with gleaming pieces of dark stone. Leander could only stare at the man-that-was-not-a-man. It was shaped like a man but made of a metal the color of coin. Smoke—no, steam—escaped with a hiss from a cylindrical opening connected to the side of its square head. Its round eyes shone brightly as its gaze fell upon them.

  “Oh, Timothy, you’re back,” it said pleasantly, its voice echoing as if from inside a well. “I stumbled upon a lovely vein of heatstone quite by accident while foraging some mannaroot for supper.” It wheeled the cart farther into the room, its metal feet clomping heavily upon the wood floor, and placed its load near the door leading into the furnace chamber. “I see you’ve brought home some company.”

  Leander stared at Timothy Cade in shock. “In Alhazred’s name, what is that?”

  “That’s Sheridan,” Timothy said, watching as the metal man began to unload its cart. “I made him, too.”

  “And what a fabulous job he did,” Sheridan said, executing a small bow as another hissing blast of steam jetted from the side of his head.

  “And he’s also a very good friend,” Timothy said with a chuckle. The boy presented his company to the machine. “This is Leander Maddox, Sheridan, a very dear friend of my father’s,” he said. “And, of course, you know Edgar.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Maddox,” Sheridan said with another slight bow. “And it’s always good to see you here, Edgar.”

  The rook squawked. “I missed you too, handsome.”

  “Did Master Argus accompany you on this visit?” the mechanism asked cheerily.

  Leander dropped his gaze, hesitant, and neither Timothy nor Edgar leaped into the silence with an explanation. But that somber quiet was enough for the metal man to glean some understanding. “Oh, dear.” Sheridan’s red eyes dimmed. “How horribly sad,” he said with a shake of his blocky head.

  The room remained uncomfortably silent.

  “You made—him?” Leander asked, hoping to lift the oppressive pall.

  The boy hopped up on one of the tables. “He was very hard to build, probably my most difficult creation,” he answered. “I still haven’t got all the bugs out of him just yet, have I, Sheridan?”

  The machine held out its arms and wiggled three segmented fingers and a thumb on each hand. “My hands still seem to get a bit stiff when it’s going to rain,” he said thoughtfully, “but other than that, I get by just fine.”

  Leander chuckled heartily, a low rumbling laugh deep in his chest as he shook his head in disbelief. “I’m not sure how many more surprises I can stand in one day,” he said. The welcome sound of his laughter proved contagious, for Timothy chuckled as well.

  Their laughter trailed off and the uncomfortable silence returned until Leander’s stomach suddenly rumbled.

  “Oh, my,” the mage said, embarrassed, laying a hand upon his growling belly. “Please excuse me.”

  “What’ve you got, Dire Wolves under that robe?” Edgar asked, flying up from the table to land again upon the boy’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t really be teasing the mage,” the bird chided himself in a whisper that everyone could hear. “I’m hungry too. Is there anything
to eat?”

  There was no glass in the windows of the workshop, though Leander did not doubt that had he desired to do so, Timothy could have found a way to create a translucent material that would take the place of the transparency spell magicians used. Given the island’s tropical climate, the windows were simply open, though there were shutters that Leander imagined the boy closed in case of high winds or a severe rainstorm. Now, however, at the mention of food, Timothy glanced out a window and noticed that the sun had set and the island was peaceful in twilight.

  “How rude of me,” the boy said, hopping down from his seat on the table. “It’s way past suppertime. Please forgive me. My father is the only guest I’ve ever had, and he never failed to remind me when it was time for a meal.”

  The boy strode across the workshop to a crank that jutted from the wall. It was very similar in design to the one on his pole, but larger and made of metal. Timothy turned the crank and gazed upward at an opening in the ceiling, from which a ladder began to descend. When he had lowered it fully, he gestured up the ladder toward the opening. “Follow me upstairs and I’ll see if I can’t put supper together.” And the boy started to climb.

  “Very nice meeting you, Master Maddox,” Sheridan said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve some tidying up to do in the workshop, but hopefully I will see you again before you depart.” A blast of steam shot from the side of his head in a whistling blast as he hefted the cart of stone and wheeled it farther into the back of the workshop.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you as well,” Leander said, still in awe of the mechanical man. Then he began to climb the ladder from the workshop up to Timothy’s dwelling. It was certainly an evening of surprises, and the mage could only wonder what marvels were yet to come.

  Edgar fluttered through the opening first and Leander followed, squeezing his large form through the narrow hole into the boy’s living quarters. It was quaint, furnished with simple, practical pieces of dark wood. A large black pot hung over a fire in a hearth, and a delicious aroma that made his mouth water filled the air. Yes, it was similar to a dwelling back home, but looking carefully, he could see the things that made this place different. Yaquis fronds covered the walls, and a peek out the windows showed a strange world, where an ice-blue moon was surrounded by four smaller moons, all of them hanging weightlessly in the night sky above an undulating alien sea.

  “Welcome to my home,” Timothy said, a warm smile on his sun-darkened features. Despite his grief, he seemed to be enjoying this rare contact with an outsider.

  How lonely it must have been for him to grow up here, with only rare visits from his father, and a metal man for company, Leander thought. His earlier thoughts persisted. No matter how he had worked to transform the island, Patience was not truly Timothy’s home.

  “Something sure smells tasty,” Edgar croaked, perching atop the back of a chair beside a small dining table. The rook flapped his wings in anticipation, ruffling the thick black feathers around his neck.

  The boy beamed, turning toward the pot that bubbled in the hearth. “It looks like Ivar started cooking before we even got to the workshop, so we shouldn’t have to wait too long before we eat.”

  The boy’s mention of an unfamiliar name snagged Leander’s attention. “Ivar?” he asked. “Who—”

  A round vegetable, with skin very like the color of the ocean outside, suddenly seemed to float up into the air from a woven basket at the base of the hearth. It hovered, then dropped into the steaming pot with a splash.

  Leander’s mind raced. Is there magic at work here after all? He could see nothing but a slight shimmer in the air before the stone fireplace.

  “He’s not used to company either,” Timothy said, directing his stare toward the same shimmering spot. “It’s okay, Ivar,” he said. “You know Edgar. And Master Maddox—Leander—is a friend. They came because my father is…”

  The air in front of the hearth seemed to thicken, growing darker as something began to materialize. No, not materialize, the mage determined. The man had been there all along; it was just that Leander had been unable to see him.

  “Ivar is an Asura,” Timothy said quietly, glancing at Leander.

  Leander looked at the boy askance. “Surely not. They’re extinct, the Asura. Savages. The last of the tribe died out half a century ago or more.”

  Timothy chuckled softly. “Well, he looks fairly healthy to me. I don’t know the whole story, but Ivar was living here long before I arrived. My father brought him here, just as he brought me. Ivar looked after me when I was a baby. He and Sheridan are the best friends I have.” He looked away from Ivar and a sad smile crept across his face. “The only friends I have, really, now that my father is gone.”

  Leander was sensitive to the boy’s sadness, yet he could not help staring in amazement at the Asura warrior. The savage tribe was not extinct after all; there still lived at least one last warrior. Here was another thing Argus Cade had kept from him, and Leander had to wonder what else his mentor had failed to mention.

  According to what he knew of them, the Asura were an ancient race, much more in tune with the natural order of things than the supernatural. The tales told of fierce warriors and great hunters, who had resisted overreliance upon magic and been ostracized as primitives, as savages. When more “civilized” peoples tried to take their homelands, the Asura had fought back and been destroyed.

  Ivar leaned over the bubbling pot, stirring the contents with a large wooden spoon. His skin was fair, a pale white, but at a moment’s notice its color could change, allowing him to blend with his surroundings. It was a unique talent that had made the Asura such expert hunters.

  “All who are present now were friends of the Arguscade,” the Asura said in a voice like the rumble of a distant storm. “This meal we shall consume in his honor. The pleasure we receive from it shall be bestowed upon him in the great lands beyond this.”

  Ivar turned his pale features to all that were present to see if they were in agreement with what he had proposed. Leander had seen only portraitures of the ancient people and was taken by the Asura’s strange but fascinating appearance. Ivar was short and powerfully built, pale, almost translucent, with not a trace of hair upon his body. Leander had read that strange patterns demonstrating an Asura’s mood could appear on the skin, but currently Ivar’s flesh was unblemished. His eyes were dark, penetrating, and his cheekbones high and pointed. He was dressed only in breeches made from dried animal skin.

  Everyone agreed that the meal would be eaten in Argus’s honor, and in a matter of minutes, they were dining upon a stew of exotic vegetables and fish, the bounty of Patience.

  “I usually prefer my meat raw,” Edgar said, plucking a chunk from the bowl that had been set down before him in the center of the table. Timothy’s familiar tossed the fish back in his throat and gulped it down. “But this isn’t bad at all. My compliments to the chef.”

  Ivar, sitting cross-legged upon the floor, bowed his bald head as he received the familiar’s praise.

  Seated across from Timothy, in one of the two chairs, Leander watched from the corner of his eye as the boy ate his meal. Though they had met only hours ago, the mage found that he was already quite fond of the youth. There was so much about him that reminded the mage of the boy’s father: the way Timothy moved, the way he held his head when he talked. It was like having part of his old friend still around, and the thought of him hidden away in this place was cause for concern.

  They finished their hearty meal and cleaned up. Then Ivar excused himself to return to his own dwelling and commune with the spirits of his ancestors, as was the custom of his people. It was peaceful and calm upon the island of Patience, but Leander found himself growing restless, his mind tormented by the frustration he felt with Timothy’s banishment.

  Edgar dozed, perched atop the back of Timothy’s chair, and the boy eagerly showed the mage countless drawings of inventions he had not yet found time to build. When Timothy finished describing a contrapti
on that would allow him to breathe beneath the water, Leander took the opportunity to ask the lad a question that had been on his mind since walking through the secret door in the Cade mansion and finding himself on the sands of Patience.

  “Are you happy here, Timothy?”

  The question froze the boy. This young man, this un-magician, blinked and then glanced over at Leander. “Of course I’m happy. The island is beauty and peace and my friends are here. And I…” Timothy stopped. He might have been pondering the question for the very first time. His brow furrowed and he placed the latest drawing back on the pile.

  “I suppose I never really thought about it much,” he answered. “This is all I’ve ever known, so I would guess that I’m happy—aren’t I?”

  Leander reached across the table and placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I cannot answer that for you, Timothy,” he said. “But if it was me, just the knowledge that there was something more than this—something beyond Patience—would make me at least curious to explore, both the world and my place in it.”

  Timothy lowered his head sadly. “Then I guess I’ll never really be able to answer your question. I’ll never know if I’m happy or not; Patience is all that I’m allowed to know.”

  “Do you truly believe that?” Leander asked.

  The boy looked up, his eyes glassy with emotion. “I can never leave Patience,” he said, voice cracking. “It would be too dangerous. I could not survive.”

  “Ah, but are you certain of that?” Leander asked. “It would be difficult, I’ve no doubt, but with my help, I’m confident that you would manage.”

  The mage felt some small doubt, knowing that what he suggested was quite against the wishes of his late mentor. But what he had vowed was to watch over Timothy as if the boy were his own, and if that was the case, then he knew he was doing the right thing. Argus Cade may have been one of the most powerful mages in the world, and the closest friend that he had ever known, but the old man had been wrong in banishing his son, no matter his reasons. Timothy never should have been hidden away, and Leander wanted to rectify his mentor’s error.