by Carl Purcell
“No, Roland, wait. Look, what if I pay you more?”
“So long, Griffith.”
“Roland, really, stop. You can't go.”
“I'm gone.” Roland didn't stop.
“But Roland, if you go then...” Griffith thought desperately. He kept pace with Roland until he could think of something, anything to keep him to stay.
“Then what?”
“If you turn around and go back, Pentdragon will find you and kill you.”
Roland kept going, undeterred. “If he comes knocking, I'll say I'm sorry and I'm going to drink until I've forgotten all about him and you and magic.”
“And you think that will be enough?”
Roland stopped. “I guess we'll see.”
“He'll kill you, Roland. He'll kill us both if he finds us.”
“Then what?” Roland turned back to Griffith. “What do we do? Run from him forever? Thanks for another great idea, kid. But you know what? I think I'll try and tackle this without you.”
“We can do that. Or we can find a stronger sorcerer to protect us. A legendary master who can teach us to be stronger than Pentdragon.”
Roland stood and said nothing, struggling to find an argument.
“So you see, you can't go back. We'll have to keep going, together.”
Roland ran his hands over his face as if he could somehow just brush away the mounting frustration. If he'd had the energy, he could have throttled the bastard.
“We don't have a choice now, Roland. Pentdragon has changed everything.”
“Fuck!” Roland shouted. “I should never have gone with you. I knew you'd get yourself killed. Now you're taking me with you.”
Griffith took a deep, calming breath. “It's all right, Roland. We just have to get to Salem.”
“And your legendary master will protect us?” Roland's voice dripped scorn.
“We just have to assume he will.”
Roland gritted his teeth and took a long look south along the road.
“Trust me, Roland. This is the safest thing you can do.”
“Fuck!” Roland turned back to Griffith and the road forward. Resigned, he said: “Okay. Let's go.”
Roland and Griffith started walking again. Every so often Griffith cast a glance over his shoulder. He never saw anybody but that didn't stop him from checking. Roland walked beside him, focused on the way forward. Two hours passed and the cars indifferently passing them and disappearing into the distance, they still hadn't seen any signs of life in the area. As the third hour ticked by they had their first view of a town in the distance. Then they spotted something else new. They weren't sure what it was at first but as they came closer they were sure it was a car they could see on the side of the road. Wisps of smoke rose from the engine. The front of the car had crumbled inwards, every window in the car was broken and it sagged to one side on burst tires. Roland and Griffith took slow steps as they approached it. Griffith was the first to speak. He called out to the car:
“Hello! Anybody there? Is anybody hurt?” No response. They couldn't see anybody around the vehicle. “What do you think?” he asked Roland.
“I wonder what happened to the car it hit.”
“You think it hit another car?”
“Well, it didn't do that to itself.” But Roland wasn't so sure it was a car. When he thought about it, he could still feel the invisible force that knocked him across the motel room and pinned him to the ground. While blankets and bed sheets coiled around him, it felt like an elephant was sitting on his back. Roland looked down at his ring. No glow.
“We should see if anybody is hurt and then keep going.”
“Be my guest.” Roland stayed put, a few metres back from the car and scanned the landscape around them. He strained his eyes to see even the slightest movement between them and the horizon.
Griffith walked slowly up to the car and peered inside. “It's all right!” Griffith turned and called to Roland. “The inside is ruined. Somebody decided to make Swiss cheese out of it, but there's nobody...” he stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes moved off Roland and onto the road behind him. Roland spun to look, instinctively clenching his hands into fists. Back down the highway, the way they had walked, a sole shape moved towards them. The sight of the creature struck Roland with a frightened, unbelieving awe. A large, grey and brown-furred, wild dog walking along the highway towards them. The animal seemed fixed on them.
“Roland, is that what I think it is?” Griffith asked, suddenly beside him.
“It can't be,” Roland answered.
“It looks exactly the same. Did it follow us?”
“How could it follow us? It went running ahead of us.”
“Well, it's behind us now.”
Shock kept Roland locked in place. The idea that a wild dog had followed them from Thomas' farm was crazy and yet the evidence seemed undeniable. The few minutes it took for the dog to reach them went by at a sloth's pace and they didn't speak another word. Then the dog was upon them. The animal paused and look from one man to the other, then sat down.
Griffith scratched the back of his head. “Uh … hello.” The dog looked at him and stood up again. It circled around them and the car wreck and then sat down in front of them, once more. The wild creature seemed to be studying them. And why not? Crazier things had happened.
“Griffith, you're talking to a— you know what? Never mind.” Even as Roland said it, the idea didn't sound as insane as it might have done a couple of days ago.
“I'm only being polite. I think.”
The dog stood up again after its moment of contemplation. Roland and Griffith watched it with no notion of how to respond to the animal. Then the animal's body began to spasm. They heard its bones crack and break. The hair all over its body began to recede, revealing pink flesh. Meanwhile, its paws enlarged and its muzzle shrunk back into its head. The dog became a monstrosity that lifted itself up onto hind legs. Those legs stretched out long, the knee bones snapped forward. The matted, patchy fur turned shades of green and blue and on its head it grew a long, auburn mane. Its eyes enlarged and changed colour and a prominent jaw formed in place of the elongated muzzle. In less than a minute the dog was gone and the unnatural horror that reshaped itself had become a slender woman with long, straight auburn hair. She had no shoes on but wore pale, faded jeans and a dark green tank top. Her clothes and hair were splattered with dried dirt; her flesh was noticeably scarred everywhere it could be seen. She was wearing a mismatched assortment of wooden necklaces and bangles. There was a wild, untamed look in her brown eyes and the slightest hint of a smirk on her lips. Constant sun had given her skin a dark tan. The woman took a piece of white string from her pocket and tied her hair back. Finally she spoke:
“Close your mouth, Griffith. You're beginning to drool.”
Griffith swallowed. “You know my name.”
“Yes. Both of you. The last time we met, one of you shot me.” The woman shot a glare at Roland. “We've been crossing paths ever since I followed Pentdragon's men to your motel.”
“There was a dog when they dragged us out. That was you?” Roland asked.
“That's right. I tried to get there first and warn you.”
“Big help. So now why the hell are you following us?”
“I'm not. Listen, I'm sure you have questions and I'll answer them, just not here. Come with me. We'll talk at the Red Lion.”
“Sure.” Griffith said.
The woman pushed past them, stopping to smirk at Roland and say:
“Don't worry. No hard feelings.”
Roland had no answer.
The woman walked with Griffith and Roland along the highway until they reached Glencoe. She introduced herself as Caia and described herself as native to the region, although what exactly that meant, she didn't say. Griffith was the first to mention her unique abilities and, with distinct pride, Caia explained that she'd perfected the magic of self-transformation and that the wild dog was just one anima
l form she could take. Then she added that she had yet to meet another sorcerer or sorceress who could match her shape-shifting abilities. Griffith paused and examined her. After a minute of scrutiny, his eyes lit up.
“It's the jewellery, isn't it?”
“You're half right. Now keep walking, the Red Lion Tavern is close and we can talk safely there.” Griffith moved his jaw as if to say more but decided to keep his mouth closed and walk.
The town of Glencoe sat almost entirely on the eastern side of the highway. On the western side of the highway was a short row of buildings, punctuated by the Red Lion Tavern at the northern end. Roland and Griffith had only just realised that they were seeing all that Glencoe had to offer when the town suddenly stopped and more grassy fields and distant woodlands filled the world ahead of them. Caia led them into the tavern and Roland followed eagerly behind her.
Griffith stopped to look at the tavern a little more. Griffith was always fascinated by the old, colonial buildings that sat almost completely unknown in small towns across the country. The Red Lion Tavern was built of red bricks and had a high pointed roof with three windows on the front side. The doors were made from wooden slats painted bright red. Every window had similar bright red shutters on either side. Under the exterior and street lights, the building glowed in the night. Griffith couldn't tell if the building was old or just built in that old, English style. If it was old, it was kept in excellent condition. A lit sign out the front of the tavern advertised Food. Ale. Rest. All of those sounded good. Griffith followed his companions through the doors. A flyer stuck to the wall inside advertised The Blair Hill Beast Nature Walk.
Caia and Roland had found a table in the corner of the restaurant and waited for Griffith in silence. The other tables sat empty. Griffith wove past the tightly packed, glossy wooden tables and chairs towards his companions. Their table was near an open fireplace. Griffith's chair scraped across the hearth when he pulled it out. Caia ran her fingers around the rim of a glass of water and Roland was half-way through a beer by the time Griffith sat.
“How did you pay—” He began.
“I did. Go ahead and get a drink, it's on me,” Caia answered. Griffith weighed the benefits of a free drink against weaving his way through the room a second time and eventually settled on the drink. He left the table and returned a few moments later with a lemonade.
“Thanks. So where were we? Oh right, the jewellery. I'm right, aren't I? There's no way you could do it without a focus.”
“Partly.” Caia extended an arm to Griffith, showing him the wooden bangles. Each one was marked with a different pattern of interlinked shapes. “The designs are the focus. This is just how I remember the patterns.”
“Hey, I've got an idea! Let's pretend one of us at this table isn't a freak and doesn't know what you're talking about.” Roland said between sips of his beer. Griffith turned and offered an apologetic smile. Roland just glared.
“I'll explain,” Griffith said. “So by now you've probably started to wonder how many stories and legends about magic are true or at least based on real sorcerers. The answer is: most of them. You know how you always see magicians with wands, witches chanting and a wizard with a big staff? Well, at one time or another, all of those stereotypes have been true, but not because any of those things are inherently powerful. Sorcerers have different tools that they use to focus themselves when casting a spell, because it's just generally easier to do that. A few can cast a spell just by thinking it and they can do it just as fast as a sorcerer with a focus. Those are the most powerful sorcerers. For them, there is no separation between their thoughts, their will and the universe. For everybody else, something to help them focus is necessary to communicate with the universe. It's like an extra step between you and the magic, as though you're not really doing it. It's symbolic, in a way, but it's still powerful.”
Caia nearly choked on her water. “Communicate with the universe? That's what you're going with?”
“Well, isn't that true?”
“Yeah, but it sounds terrible.” Caia turned to Roland. “Look, when Nancy-Boy here talks about communicating with the universe, he doesn't mean it in the new age, hippy, communion with Mother Earth kind of way. It's not an open dialogue. With magic, Mother Earth is your bitch and, if you say something is going to be on fire, then it damn-well lights up. If Mother Earth has a problem with that, she can man up and take it.”
Griffith pouted.
“I get it,” said Roland. “So you focus on shapes?”
“Yes. Each curve or point or link in these patterns is part of the language I use to channel my will. A language only I can read. It's like...” Caia paused to think. “Have you ever gotten so absorbed by what you're doing that there was nothing else in the world but you and your thoughts and whatever you're doing?”
Roland didn't answer.
“Well, that's the frame of mind you need to be in. By reading the spells on my bangles, my necklace or braided in my hair, I can cast the same spell again and again.”
“In your hair? Really?” Griffith stared at the braids in Caia's hair, leaning uncomfortably close until she pushed him back.
“Yes my hair. The drawback to all this is that the patterns are hard to remember so I have to have them written down somewhere.”
“So are all your spells written somewhere on your clothes?” Roland asked.
“No. Some spells I've cast so many times that it's almost a second nature. I can just see the formula in my mind.”
“And each pattern you're wearing is one focus for one spell?”
“Correct.”
“What about this?” Roland took off his stolen ring and placed it on the table. “Where does this fit into everything?”
“Unlike a focus, your ring is inherently powerful,” Griffith answered. “Somebody, probably Pentdragon, has put magic into that ring. It's just a little bit and it only does one thing, but inside that jewel is raw magical energy. That's why it will continue to work forever, as long as it's there, because it's like the ring is casting the spell.”
“So it's not a focus?”
“Nope. Think of it as a small, artificial sorcerer who knows one spell.”
“Or like a Weird? That kind of energy?”
“Yep.”
“I don't get it. Where does this energy come from?” Roland's question was followed by a long, uncomfortable silence. Griffith eventually broke it to answer, timidly:
“I'm not sure. I don't know if anybody is sure. Magic just seems to have this presence in things. It's like a spirit or electricity. Somehow people's emotions and their will act to generate it. Some people make more; that's why magic comes easier to some than others. That's why it seems like magic is stronger when particular people use it. I'm not sure if it's in the blood, or in the mind or maybe in your soul. I just know that it's there. Sometimes you hear legends that people have lost their magic by giving it up or having it taken out of them. I've heard stories of people absorbing that raw power and becoming incredibly powerful in a short burst, as if they were supercharged by it or something.”
“So could you absorb the magic from this?”
“Maybe. I don't know how. Things with magic in them tend to explode if you break them. I wouldn't know how to absorb the energy.”
“Explode?”
“Yeah. It's amazing how many big accidents happen that way. Even small magic things make pretty big booms.”
“I'm getting another drink.” Roland left the table abruptly and made his way to the bar.
“That's a lot for a guy to process,” said Caia.
“Yeah. But it seems like Roland can handle anything.”
“Most people, when they find out, are either jealous or depressed that everything they thought about the universe is wrong.”
“They're not wrong. There's just more to it than what they thought.”
Caia looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know, the other way people react is to want something from you. Has he asked
about God, yet? It's always God.”
“No.” Roland's arrival back at the table was a sudden and forceful as his departure. “Why, do you know something the rest of us don't?”
“I don't believe in him.” Caia's answer was almost as curt.
“Roland, you asked how Caia managed to follow us from Pentdragon.” Griffith desperately steered the conversation away from religion. There was nothing good in that conversation.
“I wasn't following you. I overheard Pentdragon's men talking – they said they were going to grab two sorcerers who had broken his laws. I thought I'd ruin his plans but they beat me to your motel. I stopped following you after that, but fate decided we should meet again at the farm and then on the road today.”
“So it was a coincidence?” Griffith asked.
“I didn't say that. Once Pentdragon had you I knew there was nothing I could do. So I kept travelling north like I was originally doing. I was surprised when I picked up your scent again. I thought Pentdragon would have killed you.”
“He tried.” said Roland. “We escaped before he could.”
“Good. I hope you did a little more than steal his ring on your way out.”
“You don't sound like a happy subject of the kingdom.” Griffith said.
“There's no kingdom,” Caia scoffed. “Pentdragon is just some guy who let a lot of power go to his head. All his so-called subjects and servants are either his friends or people he's bullied into submission. Anybody with any sense just ignores him. Pentdragon isn't even his real name. He named himself after King Arthur's father – except he couldn't even get that right.”
“What do you mean?” Griffith asked.
“King Arthur's father was Uther Pendragon. There was no T.” Caia answered. Roland laughed and downed the rest of his second beer.
“Well that makes me feel a whole lot better.” Griffith breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed. Pentdragon didn't seem so threatening any more. Then he asked: “Why were you travelling north, anyway?”
“I was looking for somebody.”
“Who?”
“You remember that car? The one smashed up on the highway? I'm looking for the one who did that.”
