The Magician: An Epic Dark Fantasy Novel: Book One of the Rogue Portal Series (6 page)

NINE

⌛

              Connor arrived back at the dorm room to find Stuart absent and, not wanting to fall asleep lest he be catapulted into the realm of the Magician, he headed to the school library. Exquisite and expansive, the school library consisted of nearly ten floors, each of which contained floor-to-ceiling collections of books and only enough free space in which to sit and study. It was beautiful, and perfect for escaping. The sitting areas, though they made up only a portion of the floor space of the library, offered students a spacious in which to study, trimmed in muted tones of brown and bronze and green that made it seem like the library of a luxurious safari hut in the days of wild exploration. The paintings of animals that hung in brass frames and the occasional leopard or zebra striped pillows tossed about the sofas helped to solidify the image.

              Making his way through the third floor of books, he casually looked at the spines of the books as he passed them. He took a finger and ran it across several spines as he made his way down the aisle.

              He'd had no strategy in choosing an aisle on which to start. He didn't even know what he should be looking for. He only knew that something far beyond the physical realm of possibility had injected itself into his life, and since metaphysical was, by definition, a study of all things beyond the physical it made logical sense to begin in the corresponding section of the library. But where in there to begin precisely he had no idea. Perhaps a book would catch his eye. Perhaps he'd have a sudden moment of clarity. Perhaps...

             
Shhhthud!

             
He turned his head toward the source of the noise. Given the lateness of the hour, not many people were in the library, least of all in the metaphysical section. The emptiness caused the noise to reverberate and return back to Connor many times over. As he looked, he saw something laying on the ground midway down the aisle.

              Moving closer, the object became clearer and he saw the shape of a book appear. A book which, for all intents and purposes, had slid off the shelf of its own volition and landed squarely in the center of the aisle. He took a few steps closer. The book displayed beautiful text inscribed in a Medieval font. The book looked old, and misplaced among the newer volumes packed tightly on the shelves to either side of the aisle.

              He bent down, blowing the cover of the book to remove the layer of dust. It scattered obediently, and Connor brushed the rest of the film away with his hand. The book's brown leather cover boasted a large hourglass insignia embossed in a golden hue. He brushed the rest of the dust away and exposed the title,
The Alchemist's Almanac
.

              In the forest, when one is walking alone, it is said to be wise to stop and listen intently when all other noises stop. When birds stop singing, and crickets stop chirping, and it seems that even the wind has taken to obediently holding its breath, that's when a traveler should beware. Because it is in this moment that a predator is nearby. Silence, at least in the forest, is a precursor to danger. Because in that moment you're either close to a predator, or you are one.

              It might not have been the forest, but in a moment the hairs on the back of Connor's neck stood up in acute and distinct awareness that all noise had ceased, save for a cough here and a rustle of paper there. The blue glow of the pocket watch around his neck returned.

              "You don't really think that stubbornly avoiding sleep is going to do you the least bit of good, do you?"

              The monotone nature of the voice (what was the accent? Scottish perhaps?) came from behind him. Without turning around he replied.

              "I'm looking for answers."

              Connor turned and faced the Magician, raising an eyebrow at his attire. Instead of the crimson and gold garb, he'd donned the black suit he'd been wearing on the first day of chemistry class. In his hand he held the umbrella, which he used much like the golden staff he carried in the other realm.

              "I'm assuming you think you'll find answers in the local library, then?"

              His tone, borderline accusatory, told Connor he should have known better.

              "Have you got a better idea?"

              "Oh, my dear, I have loads of ideas that are far better than searching the metaphysical section of your college library. You don't really think they stock books that will actually
teach
you anything here, do you?" He sneered derisively at the wall of books before him, scanning it, up and down.

              "You seem to think you know a lot and they've stocked you in their staff, so why don't you tell me."

              Professor Rumsfeld laughed, almost to himself.

              "I knew I liked you."

              "Yes, well I'm not sure I can say the same for you."

              "I expected as much." He took a black-gloved hand and began sifting through the books in front of him with a sneer.

              "Frankly, I'm not even sure who you are. Or what the hell you want."

              "No, you don't. That much I'll give you. But I have something you need. And you," he said, turning toward Connor and picking up the pocket watch around his neck with a mesmerized look, "have something that I very much need, as well."

              Unsettled both by the sudden interest the man had taken in his father's pocket watch and by the strength of the blue glow emanating from it he snatched it away from Rumsfeld and tucked it into his shirt. It burned hot against his chest, but he made sure not to show it. Professor Rumsfeld looked as though he'd just snapped out of a long sleep.

              "What could I possibly need from you?"

              "Answers, Dearie."

              Once again animated in the subdued, subtle manner so accustomed to his nature, the man smiled and opened his arms in a welcoming gesture, greeting his audience of one from a nonexistent stage.

              "Actually, you're the reason for most of my questions!" Connor snapped.

              "Ah, but that's not exactly true. Is it?"

              "Why shouldn't it be?"

              "Because you had questions long before you came here. You had questions before you ever knew I existed. You had a burning in your mind that kept you up at night."

              He motioned to the place on Connor's chest where the pocket watch rested, still warm but not as hot as it had been, against his chest.

              "You had questions that led you into your attic. Questions that led you to pick up that trinket and bring it here."

              He softened his voice further, meeting Connor's eyes with concern.

              "Questions that led your mother to the brink of insanity."

              A volcanic fire erupted in the core of Connor's being, lighting a fuse that had been dormant for years, causing his hands to grab the professor's shirt and slam him against the shelf of books, sending several volumes clattering to the ground, including
The Alchemist's Almanac
, which he dropped in order to exact his revenge.

              The man laughed quietly, but his eyes blazed with excitement.

              "Now
that
is better."

              "What the hell do you mean better?"

              "Fire, my dear boy! You've spent far too much of your life complacent."

              "What could you possibly know about my life!?"

              "EVERYTHING!" the man shouted, sending Connor three steps backwards, the man's words having a force of their own. The man's expression softened, and Connor let go of his shirt.

              "I know everything about you, boy," he continued, resuming his hushed tone, but moving toward Connor as though he intended to stick
him
against a wall of books. He spoke faster, moving closer, his tone hushed but fervent.

              "I know about the hours you spent awake. I know about the way your mother buried your father in the ground, and then buried him again in the attic. I know about the nights you spent looking through your telescope as though you would find your father reincarnated as the man on the bloody moon. I know how angry you are, how many answers were so unjustly kept from you, how many questions you were told never to ask. I know everything!

              "I know that you've spent nearly every waking moment of your conscious life since the day you figured out you didn't have a father resenting the people who kept those answers from you, but being such a bloody coward that you never found the strength to demand what you were owed. Answers! Explanation! The TRUTH! About you. And your father. And your mother. And the pocket watch you think you chose at random, that you think was merely a trinket of your father's."

              Connor took a shuddering breath, his back nearly flush against the row of books opposite the one he'd shoved the professor against, and felt tears run down his face.

              "It's time you wake up, boy. It's time you start
asking
questions. It's time you start
getting
answers. And it's high time you stop denying the anger. The resentment. Because
that's
the fire you  need to fuel your search. Don't you understand?"

              He held up a hand and placed it on Connor's chest above the pocket watch, never breaking eye contact with him.

              "This is not a mere trinket, boy. And I think you know that."

              Finally backing up a half-step, the man whisked his hand in a flick of the wrist, sending the spilled books back to their shelves. He extended his hand to his side, and the large volume on the ground,
The Alchemist's Almanac
, answered the call, rising from the ground and landing in it.

              Connor trembled from head to toe, emotion coursing through him like a torrent, tears rolling down his cheeks. Years of emotion fleeing their prison. Years of questions making themselves known.

              "Nobody's stopping you from asking questions now, boy" the man said, the compassion in his eyes betraying the flat line of his mouth, handing him the book. "The only person you need permission from is yourself."

              Connor took the book, and in a moment Professor Rumsfeld turned on his heel and evaporated into a plume of grey-blue smoke.

              Sinking to the ground, Connor put his knees on his elbows, rested his forehead on his hands, and, for the first time in twenty-three years, sobbed uncontrollably.

TEN

⌛

The encounter in the library had brought Connor face to face with a reality whose existence he had previously spent a great deal of energy trying to deny. He didn't believe in magic. Why would he? They pummel the imagination out of you starting in grade school. Report you to various adults with too many letters after their name when you write something that doesn't have a happy ending. Have you analyzed if you draw a picture that uses too much black ink. Send you to doctors and professional people in suits, who clearly had been cured of their imaginative quality long ago, if you exhibit too much knowledge of the weird, the  unhappy, the unusual, or the dark.

              And, if all of these professional adults did their jobs correctly, by the time you reach the age of twenty-three you've been long since cured of your belief in much of anything. You've got a solid and intact wall creating a distinction between what is imaginary and what is real. Chances are good you've internalized the indomitable truth that imaginary is synonymous with fake. Make believe. And, if your assigned Professional Adults were exceptionally good at their jobs, you likely wound up with a well-functioning doubt reflex that would well up and strike you whenever you thought you had the right to disagree.

              The Professional Adults in Connor's life had done quite the job now that he'd been confronted with emotions, feelings, facts, questions, and suspicions that those looking out for his best interest had always told him were erroneous at best, disturbing at worst. The collapse of his well-laid wall had, after several hours of dazed contemplation, provided him with the bricks he intended to use to rebuild. 

              After an extended period of time sitting motionless on the floor of the library, simultaneously puzzled and grateful that nobody had happened upon him in such a state, he'd gathered himself and made his way to a large table with
The Alchemist's Almanac
in tow. He'd not yet concluded that Rumsfeld's claims of trying to help him were anywhere close to true. In fact, he felt that it was quite likely the man was after his own self-interest, the specifics of which he thought he'd rather not know. But he also knew that, at the present moment, following Rumsfeld's lead had to be a better option than doing nothing. He had no experience whatever with what he'd stumbled - or been drawn - into, and if he needed to dance with the devil to gain some sort of foothold, he was willing to do it. At least for a time.

              However, Rumsfeld was not his chief concern. At least not at the present. Kit's odd antics and too-close-for-comfort suggestions posed a much more approachable, if not equally bothersome, issue. How much did she know? How did she always seemed to be two steps ahead of him? Yes, he needed to confront her and get to the bottom of it. And he felt that acquiring such information from her would be far less torturous than his exchange with Rumsfeld had been. Especially given that this conversation would be on his terms, and not someone else's.

              Packing his backpack, book first, he made a mental note to track Kit down later in the day.
If she doesn't find me first,
he thought.

              He wanted to spend the day studying his newfound book. At the library he hadn't quite worked up the courage to open it. The encounter with Rumsfeld had left him shaken, emotionally drained, and physically exhausted. After he'd returned to the dorms and found Stuart asleep, he'd taken great pains not to wake him since the clock read three o'clock in the morning.

              Connor had smiled to himself, noting that Stuart had apparently fallen asleep with the mysterious copy of
Moby Dick
opened, text down, across his chest. He'd marked it at about a third of the way through, and Connor had no trouble believing that his roommate was capable of consuming and comprehending so much of the book in such a short amount of time.

              When he'd woken up the next morning, he'd found that Stuart had left him a note on the nightstand where his dad's pocket watch normally sat. Having been so tired, he'd fallen asleep wearing it and, for the first time since college began, hadn't had any dreams.

              The note had read:

             
Connor,

              Was hoping we could chat later. Something interesting to share with you. Chinese and chit-chat, sans Kit, at six o'clock?

              Stuart

              Connor was happy to discuss whatever Stuart wanted to talk about. He'd also decided that Stuart was likely the only person trustworthy and open-minded enough to absorb the retelling of recent events without too much trauma or judgment. The note about leaving Kit out of this one pleased him even more, given that he was positive he'd have news on that front, as well.

              It wasn't so much that he didn't trust Kit. He did. He even liked her. But until he found out just what she knew and how she knew it, he was in no mood to get too close.

              He made his way through the crowd as he headed to the park at the center of campus. Part of him wanted to study the book off-campus, but another part of him wanted a better chance of running into Kit. Not immediately. But in time.

              He'd packed a sandwich, the book, and the note from Stu in his backpack, and as he found a clearing under a large willow tree, he removed his pack, extracted the book, leaned against the tree trunk, and took a deep breath.

              He touched the cover of the book, running a finger over the embossed cover. The hourglass on the front looked identical to the Sands he'd seen in the large room in his dreams. The supporting posts, as depicted, were ornate, just like the large version. And the hourglass was completely filled, from bottom to top, with no room for sand to drift from one chamber to another. That was the identifying feature of the Sands. All the other hourglasses housed on the walls of the dream room were in constant motion and demonstrated the ability to run out. The large hourglass did not.

              As he ran his hands across the leather binding, allowing his fingers to trace the embossed patterns and words like a mouse in a maze, he felt his pulse quicken in anticipation of what the ancient book could hold. Of what could possibly be between its covers.

              As though in response, he felt the now familiar warmth of the glowing pocket watch around his neck. The spreading warmth. The metallic sting that became stronger the more he handled the book. He didn't have to look at the pocket watch to know that it was glowing a fervent shade of blue.

              Finally, he opened the book. He expected that opening the book might activate the pocket watch on an entirely different level. Had anticipated that it would glow more intensely, perhaps burn slightly. Maybe it would open involuntarily. Or find a voice and speak to him. At this point he expected all manner of things to happen.

              Except for what did.

              As he turned the page, his back launched into the tree, flattening him there and holding him down as though an invisible assailant feared he might run. His eyes slammed shut, and shaking hands grasped the book so tightly he feared it might crumble around him.

              The noises around him - people talking, shoes shuffling across the pavement, leaves falling and skidding freely in the wind across jagged sidewalks that hadn't been paved in far too long - all swirled into one cacophony of distorted, auditory taffy. His head began to pound like a tribal drum, his heartbeat registering clearly in his ears. He heard a moan escape his lips as the world began to swirl and blend and stretch.

              Suddenly he was standing in his own house, only it wasn't the version he remembered. A man walked up the staircase, plodding slowly. Even though his back was to Connor, he could tell that he was young. The sound of stifled sobs, muffled in the noise around him, reached his ears. Finally, he was completely immersed into the vision, and it extinguished the noise coming from those around him. For all intents and purposes, he was standing at the base of his staircase in his home. The vision had become something like reality.

              The stranger in his home continued his slow trod up the staircase, weeping openly. Harsh, jagged sobs escaped his lips. The man turned when he reached the upper landing. His plaid shirt hung open over a white t-shirt, and his jeans fit too loosely, like work pants. The man's face was moist from what must have been an extended period of crying.

              Connor watched as the man turned to face the banister that overlooked the lower portion of the house. The same banister located between the entry to the attic and Connor's room. He recognized it, and the stairway, and the rest of the home. Except the decorations were cheerier. The paint hadn't yet started to peel. The house hadn't yet descended into its twilight state of occupied abandonment.

              The man looked down over the banister with a hollow, solemn expression, as though resigned to a certain fate. It crossed his mind that pirates when forced to walk the plank might have the same expression painted on their faces, like blank masquerade masks hiding the frantic emotions that must have existed below the fragile surface.

              Connor watched as the stranger reached down to pick something up off the ground. A rope. Pieces of a puzzle began to filter together in his mind. Adjusting. Positioning. Rotating. Familiar, fragmented snapshots of a story from his childhood.

              The man swallowed hard as he threw the rope over the banister and began to tie a knot first to the banister, and then, with careful motions and a vacant expression, the man continued to use nimble fingers to create a loop.

              Not a loop...a noose.

              Not a stranger...

              Realization hit him like a towering wave, a tsunami of emotion and understanding. His flight response lit like a match, and he understood why the sadistic force holding him against the tree had done such a thorough job of keeping him still. He
did
want to run.

              The man slipped the noose over his neck.

              Connor fought against the force but couldn't move. He wasn't attached to his body anymore. He was in another time, in another place, watching something very real. It wasn't a vision. No, this was the closest thing to teleportation he could ever have imagined. Tears stung his eyes, but the magnetic force that had clamped his eyelids shut trapped them, damming the tears behind his reluctant flesh.

              He couldn't shut his mind's eye, though, and the vision before him continued. It was a movie he couldn't shut off. A dream from which he could not wake.

              The man sat on the railing.

              Connor screamed, but his voice found no ear. Not even his own. It was pointless.

              The man gripped the banister, closing his eyes, inhaled deeply, holding his last breath. Savoring it.

              Connor couldn't watch, but couldn't look away. He couldn't just stand there, but was equally unable to move. Because it was already over. It had already happened. The man spoke.

              "Connor, I love you. Some day you'll understand."

              "DAD!" he cried.

              But nobody could hear him.

              And then, unable to stop it, unable to look away, unable to do anything but watch and scream a silent, soul-rending scream, he witnessed the single incident that had driven his entire life up until that point toward the brink of madness.

              He watched his father slip over the edge, watched the noose snap his neck like a twig, sending it angling in a shattered, disfigured way. Watched, helpless, as the banister cracked - the crack that had glared at him for years, a constant reminder of a past he was helpless to stop. His father struggled, tensed, and then went limp, swinging only from the momentum created by the fall.

              "NO!!!"

              Still, Connor couldn't hear his own screams. He heard a ringing, as though a thousand bombs had gone off silently, without his knowledge, and he saw two dark forms appear from either side of the staircase, one from the kitchen, and one from the living room.

              They were formless and dark, without faces. Each of them carried a head in their hands. Ghastly, faceless heads that were at once grotesque and ethereal. A deep laugh emanated from the bowels of the house, and the darkness with which he was so accustomed settled in around him like a sheath.

              An elderly woman appeared in an amethyst plume of smoke and made her way over to a note lying on a stand by the door. No...there were two letters. She held them up, one in each hand, and examined them as though they were a foul insect of disproportionate size, sneering as she did.

              In a scrawled, unsteady handwriting, the names
Connor
and
Julia
were written.

              "Well, well, well. This is certainly sweet," the old woman said, with a voice much more youthful than her appearance allowed for.

              With a swift flick of her wrist the letters disappeared, and she dissolved into the monotone laughter that had preceded her.

              "I wouldn't have done that, Eleanor," said a familiar voice.