SHORT STORY: The Most Powerful Magic

Percival walked through the woods; his bindle once again slung over his shoulder.  It was a familiar sensation – his few meagre possessions and he – upon an uncertain road once more.  Though he reasoned that such frequent changes were an intrinsic part of the life he’d chosen, acknowledging that fact never rendered the weight of bidding farewell any lighter.  Along his journey, he’d been fortunate to don many guises: labourer, housekeeper, apple picker and layabout. A vagabond open to the smiling fortunes of the universe, he typically made his livelihood at the behest of strangers, who, more often than not, received him with kindness.

In response his itinerant existence, Percival had developed a cavalier attitude toward his life, accepting that which came his way with near monastic serenity.  His most recent diversion had seen him take up with a fearful scarecrow.  Though he had imagined staying with the fellow a while longer, his stay was cut short when the scarecrow (and his house) disappeared under peculiar circumstances.  Their next-door neighbour had been little help in piecing together precisely what had occurred.  An elderly woman, she spun a fantastical tale that Percival thought more a product of senility than actual fact.  Still, he felt badly for his scarecrow friend. 

Poor Raymond – frightened of his own shadow, he thought as he wordlessly wished his absent friend well. 

He hoped to see him again, perhaps one day, further down the proverbial road.  In spite of his temporary stability evaporating, Percival found travelling a bracing endeavour.  It was a life he’d selected after watching his parents march through their own unhappy union.  The road ahead was both a real-world construct (sometimes a quite literal beaten path) as well as a metaphor for the future.  Growth and forward momentum were essential to Percival’s philosophy, and he was insistent upon growing to his fullest extent.  Much like his time at the house with Raymond, he was sure that life would not fail to present him with his next adventure.

Soon enough, the universe obliged, in the form of a scream – a piercing cry for help from up ahead.  More priest than mercenary, and plenty capable of fear, Percival overrode the flash of apprehension that rose within him and moved briskly towards the direction of the distress.

The cry for help was coming from a human girl, no more than ten years old, rapidly moving towards him as fast as she could ambulate.  Bearing a satchel slung across her chest, the girl’s feet pelted across the uneven ground.  Percival recognised her desperate strides.  Free from self-consciousness, she cast her spindly arms and legs about as though her life depended on it.  As the girl grew closer, he could see the cause of her wild abandon.

Trailing behind were four giant figures whose very bodies seemed to cut a swathe of destruction through the woods as they moved.  They were the Sisterhood of the Face – soldiers about whom Percival had only a cursory understanding.  Well known throughout the kingdom, the Sisterhood carried a well-earned reputation as ruthless warriors.  Human women of vigorous proportions, they donned featureless metal helmets welded permanently onto their faces as a mark of their dedication.  Seeing through a narrow slit, the heavy masks only added to their terrifying presence, causing them to appear faceless and inhuman.

The girl dove into Percival’s arms, half collapsing from exhaustion.  He caught her as her knees buckled, his own head whipping round to hear the sound of a spear strike the ground only a few feet away.  The angry projectile had only narrowly missed them both.

“Stand aside, rat, or my sisters and I will tear you apart like bread!”, bellowed the largest of the women whose body armour distinguished herself from the others with a bloody red stripe. 

Even from underneath the mask, her booming voice inspired apprehension.  Percival had heard that the Sisterhood’s fervour was near religious, and that they were skilled in the deadly arts, so he proceeded cautiously.

“Who are you to demand this poor child’s life?”, he asked, his voice quavering as he maneuvered his body between the girl and the giant women.

“I am Primus, head Archon of the Sisterhood of the Face.  I have orders to retrieve this creature”.

Primus’s harsh tongue stood in stark contrast to the girl that presently cowered behind Percival.  Despite being barefoot and dressed only in her nightgown, she faced danger with a quiet composure that Percival could only envy.  His heart was pounding, yet the girl seemed stoic.  Still, she was unmistakably a child, with innocent eyes not yet soiled by cynicism, commerce or any form of carnal knowledge.

“Oh no”, exclaimed the girl, her voice soft and breathy. 

She rushed over to where Primus’s spear had landed and knelt before a snake that had inadvertently bisected by it.  Unafraid, the girl picked up the two halves of the serpent and sorrowfully held them in her hands.  Through her violent act, Primus had stolen something that was not hers to take – a life.

“The time for empty words has ended!”, announced Primus clapping her gloved hands together, “Sisters, take them both!”.

The other three large women advanced on Percival and the girl, but not before the little child could surreptitiously scoop up both halves of the dead snake and collect them in her satchel.

“Be careful with her!”, shouted Percival as the women placed a pair of heavy shackles on the little girl, then slapped a similar set upon his own wrists.

“Have a care, rat”, cautioned Primus, “Lest I take you for my supper”.

Rapidly realising that Primus was not a woman to be trifled with, Percival wondered where they were taking him and the girl as they frog marched them both through the woods.

“Where are we headed?”, asked Percival, summoning some courage.  Primus glared at him through the narrow slit in her helmet.

“If I had my druthers?  To the guillotine.  Fortunately, I am bound by duty.  I will bring you before Allozade.  He will decide your fate”. 

Percival’s eyes met the girl’s a few times during their journey, her expression one of silent contrition, shame for having embroiled him in such an unpleasant circumstance.  Without conversation, the party trudged through the woods for about an hour before the tree line subsided revealing a small town comprised of a straight road with shops and buildings on either side.  Percival took in the scene, noting the many people casually going about their business.

At one end of the street a group of children, both boys and girls, kicked about a leather ball.  One of the boys ventured too close to the returning party, when Primus forcefully seized the small child by his arm.

“Go and fetch Allozade”, she barked, clearly a command rather than a request.  Mortified, the boy obeyed, scurrying off into a nearby building.  A few moments later, he emerged with an old man in tow.

“Master Allozade”, began Primus, her tone now reverent, “I bring back the beast after she fled from her keep”.

Presenting her two trophies in full view of the town, Primus stood straight, her sisters filed neatly behind her.  Were her face visible, her expression would have been that of a hunting dog, proudly presenting its quarry.

“Excellent work, Primus.  I know not how she fled this time”, the old man said examining the shackled child with disdain. “And who is this?” he queried after casting his milky eyes upon Percival.  Done protesting, Percival simply glared at the man in quiet defiance.

“Some type of rat man, Master.  I suspect him of being in league with the beast”, reported Primus.

“Nonsense.  Just look at him.  He is a man of the road, not a keeper of monsters”.

Percival stayed silent.  He wasn’t often given to anger, but on this occasion, he could not resist indulging.  Above all he detested bullies, and he sensed that he was most assuredly in their presence, now.

“Return the girl to her place, and unshackle this one, post haste!”, ordered the old man, “I would speak with him alone”.

As Percival was escorted away, the little girl caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the shop windows and saw something terrible looking back at her.

***

“Magic”, began the old man, his voice twisting to conjure a sense of mystique as he paced about the small wood panelled room where Percival had been taken.

“What is magic?”, he asked, mostly to himself, “Magic is the bedrock of our town.  It is songs and stories and incantations, secret words and ritual, passed down by generations of my family.  This is a community sheathed in magic, and you have arrived at a most fortuitous time young wanderer”.

“It seems your magic does not yet encompass compassion”, replied Percival, his wrists still raw from the shackles recently removed.

“You must forgive the Sisterhood.  I’m afraid subtlety has not yet made their acquaintance”.

The magician shuffled about his quarters, absent-mindedly opening drawers and cabinets as he searched for some unknown object.  As he did so, Percival drank in his surroundings: an unremarkable table and chairs surrounded by feathers, crystals, star charts and many other magical accoutrements he’d never seen the like of.

Percival was still unclear on his status - prisoner or tentative guest?  A few scant moments ago, he’d been restrained against his will, and was dubious of the magician’s intent.  Still, he was a far more palatable alternative to that awful Primus. 

Standing no more than five feet tall, he was by far the oldest human that Percival had ever seen.  Shocks of snow-white hair emerged intermittently from the rumpled flat cap upon his head and a velvet cloak concealed a body that Percival suspected was far from robust.

“Forgive me”, he said, casting both hands skyward, “My name is Allozade.  Town magician”.

“Percival”, he replied in kind as he shook the old man’s bony hand, “I have no talent or skill of which to boast, other than my character and a persistent case of wanderlust”.

“We don’t get many of…your kind…visiting the town these days”, he equivocated haltingly as he opened yet another drawer and finally located the pipe he’d been searching so doggedly for.

“My…kind?”, asked Percival, hoping Allozade had not issued an unfortunate slander.

The magician deftly filled his pipe with practiced expertise and began filling the room with rich plumes of tobacco smoke.  Percival could now feel the old magician’s eyes upon him, scrutinising his rodential features.  It was true, in his brief time in the town square, he hadn’t noticed any other non-humans at all.  It was uncommon to say the least.  Skill and a willingness to work together was the typical criteria for most towns and villages in the kingdom.  Communities were diverse mixtures of sentient creatures, coexisting peaceably.  By contrast, this place was far more homogenous.

“Tell me, what were you doing in the company of the beast?”, Allozade asked, waving away his earlier remark.

“You mean the little girl?”, Percival replied, “I wasn’t doing anything, really.  She simply ran towards me, arms akimbo, pleading for assistance.  I followed my most basic instincts and cast my arms around her.  The far greater danger came from your metal faced constable who I think will not be satisfied ‘till she has tasted blood”.

“Your assessment of my Primus is not inaccurate, but do not be deceived, young traveller, for she is no mere girl.  She is a beast - an obscenity – born from a mother’s loin, but not from nature.  She’s unlike any creature my magic can fathom.  Do you not see the broken skin?  The rotting teeth?  In truth I am not certain how you could bear to look upon her face, let alone walk beside her!”

“But…she is only a girl.  Precocious of course, but isn’t that the way of all children?  How can you disparage one so innocent?”.

“She is a beast!”, roared Allozade, “With foul features and a dark manner about her.  She has been the root of many a malady and misfortune in this town.  Accordingly, it was decided that such a beast would spend the remainder of her days in the holding cell in the station house of the constabulary.  It was the most humane solution”.

“Humane?  Are you mad?  She’s not a beast, but a little girl! As far as I can see, besides profaning her name, she does not stand accused of any specific crime or misdeed.  I do not wish to make trouble for you magician, but I intend to free her.  My conscience will permit not less”.

His posture straightening, Allozade’s tone suddenly became sharp, “I’m afraid I cannot allow that”, he stated flatly. 

“My days remaining may not be many in number, but while I am head magician, I have a sacred duty to safeguard this town from evil”.  His tone abated, “Though you are, of course, free to enjoy the amenities of our community”, he added as an insincere smile split his face.

In spite of the literal meaning of his words, Allozade offered his town’s hospitality begrudgingly.  Percival felt neither welcome nor comfortable.  His keen sense of self-preservation prevailing, he resolved to depart as soon as was practical – and he intended to take the poor girl with him.  After his terse encounter with the old magician had ended in a polite stalemate, he walked the main street, admiring the small selection of shops and residences. 

Though he was not naturally predisposed to paranoia, Percival bore a sneaking suspicion that the magician would be keeping a keen eye on his movements.  If he wanted to liberate the girl, then guile and finesse would be required. 

Casually ambling down the street, he began to perceive a growing unease from the townsfolk.  Cutting a path through the people as he walked, they stared at him with a curious mix of fascination and fear.  Other bystanders offered more deliberate expressions.  Had their eyes been daggers themselves, Percival would have surely found himself impaled by their open contempt – a dislike for the unlike.

The shops themselves were a pedestrian affair, a tailor, a cooper.  Strolling past the tavern, he considered entering - such places had typically brought him pleasure in the past - but he could not shirk his honour and place pleasures before obligation.  The image of a child unfairly imprisoned offended him.

I wonder why they consider her a beast? he mused as he finally stopped before a storefront that caught his attention.  Inscribed upon the entrance was a word that he did not know:

‘LIBER’, read the sign, rendered in elegant font. 

Seeing that the place appeared open, Percival pulled open the door and entered. 

As his nose and lungs beheld the musty scent of paper and parchment, he realised that this store did not contain merchandise, rather an impressive array of books. Books arranged on oak shelves that lined the walls and filled every vacant space.  Organised and neatly filed together, Percival had never seen so many books in his life and did not know that such a great number of them could gather in one place.  In his youth, he’d had cause to study a book or two, and his parents owned a dozen or so, but to Percival books had always signified wealth and refinement.

“Hello”, came a silky female voice from across the room.

Percival turned to see a woman sat at a desk in the centre of the store, as though she herself were the epicenter of the immense collection.

“I’m sorry, you caught me unaware”, replied Percival, instantaneously self-conscious and powerfully stricken by the woman’s beauty.

About forty years of age, she rose from her desk and approached him.  Percival had rarely entertained notions of human beauty, but there was something about this particular specimen that he found bewitching.  It wasn’t just her velvet tone or chocolate hair; it was the alluring way she moved - her motions fluid and her dusky eyes fixated upon his.  She drew herself near and gently ran her hand across his face, savouring the sensation of his soft fur against her hand.

“You are very handsome”, she stated simply with a coy smile.

Initially speechless, Percival fumbled a half muttered “Thank you” as the enigmatic woman inspected him, apparently pleased with what she saw.  It had been a long while since any person had regarded him as an object of desire, and Percival could do no more but be flattered at the prospect.

“I don’t think I can readily recall one of your kind regarding me in such a manner”, he breathed, surprised by the breadth of his own excitement.

“I’ve spent more time with books than with people”, she began, moving back towards her desk, “And besides, similarity is not required for the appreciation of beauty, nor attraction”.

She now sat back down; her legs crossed over each other confidently as Percival took a few more tentative steps into the library.

“What is your name, rat, and what does it mean?”

“Percival.  And I do not know what it means.  It was given to me by my parents”

“Names are powerful totems.  You should not be so ignorant of your own.  My name is Soraya.  It means ‘princess’”.

“Are you the keeper of these books?”

“Yes.  I watch over them, by duty and by choice, but my services are rarely required these days.  This town has no appetite for books, let alone the knowledge contained therein.”

“What kind of knowledge?”

“All manner of things”, Soraya whispered, her eyes widening with excitement, “How to repair the injured body, instruction on words and numbers, ancient lore of plants and herbs.  Useful knowledge contained within, if only anyone cared to open them.  Instead, our young boys while away their years in the tavern and our girls encase themselves in steel and join the sisterhood.  Philistines the lot of them, drunk on superstition and the ramblings of that old charlatan”.

Percival looked quizzical.

“I take it you’ve already met with our esteemed magician?”, she asked sarcastically as she spoke his name through gritted teeth.

“Yes.  He said my visit was fortuitous.  Why would he say that?”

At that moment the clarion call of a bell rang out throughout the town, its noise reverberating through the walls of the building into the pit of Percival’s stomach.  Through the library window he could see people abruptly stop whatever they were doing and begin to form a congregation around the magician’s quarters where a small dais had been set up.

“I think you’re about to find out”, said Soraya with a raised eyebrow as she stood up from her desk and collected Percival.  The two walked out into the street towards the gathering crowd.  Interlocking her arm with his, Soraya began whispering into Percival’s ear in a low, conspiratorial tone.

“Another one of Allozade’s pointless affairs, no doubt.  The old man is withering and refuses to accept the ruling of time.  He is obsessed with magic and ritual, and has fashioned them into the official fiction of this place”.

Percival watched as the obedient crowd all flocked towards Allozade, who emerged in a resplendent red robe, waving incense that smelled of sage and blue bark.  Flanking him on either side were two members of the Sisterhood of the Face, each one appearing involuntarily expressionless in their helmet.  As more of Allozade’s entourage fussed about him, he intoned an otherworldly incantation in a language Percival did not recognise.  Upon the dais was a bubbling cauldron of unspecified liquid, into which he then peeled off the red leaves of a Calamander tree, causing a plume of pungent smoke to rise.  Unimpressed, Soraya rolled her eyes at the elaborate spectacle.

“I wonder why he was so afraid of that little girl?” wondered Percival aloud.  He turned to see Soraya’s gaze upon him, her expression suddenly electric.

“The girl?  She is here?”

“Yes, the poor lamb is apparently locked away in the constabulary.  She beseeched me for assistance but we were set upon too quickly”.

Percival could see that this news had come as a surprise to Soraya whose eyes darted back and forth as her mind rapidly began considering her next action.

“Come”, she began, both hands clasping Percival’s shoulder, “We must use this moment wisely and free her”.

Though Percival’s morals mostly prevented him from interfering too deeply in the affairs of others, he’d been unable to shake the image of the frightened girl from his mind.  Her imprisonment seemed unjust – what crime could she possibly stand accused of at such a tender age?  This was mainly why he did not object when Soraya dragged him through the crowd of people and snuck into the empty offices of the constabulary.  The holding cells were located in the rear, down a featureless corridor.

Sat by herself, clutching her satchel, the little girl waited patiently inside one of the cells, her cherubic features obscured by iron bars.  She looked up to see Percival and Soraya enter quietly and her face softened with an expression of recognition.

“Do not worry small one – we mean to free you”, she whispered, but the little girl’s smile soon dissolved as she looked past her would be liberators and saw a sight which caused a wave of panic to spread across her face.

Primus – standing motionless in the corner, observing the fumbled jailbreak through her faceless mask – waiting for the right moment to reveal her presence.

“At last, little rat”, she spoke, “I have an excuse with which to do you harm”.

***

Percival, Soraya and the little girl sat quietly in the holding cell.  Only a few feet wide, the featureless room contained only a stone slab for sitting and sleeping and a nondescript wooden bucket for answering nature’s requirements.  Soraya looked rueful, her downcast expression marring her comely features.

“I regret that my impulse was so foolhardy.  I did not intend for you to be drawn into strife”, she apologised to Percival, “And you little one”, she began, now addressing the girl, “I have failed you not once but twice”.

“Do not be sad, Soraya.  The fault is not yours”, she offered kindly.

Percival found himself pleased at the sound of the little girl’s voice.  It was reassuring to hear her speak, if only for confirmation that her spirit had not been hammered down by incarceration.

Failed you twice?  Percival thought, as he arrived at sudden realisation.

“Then it was you who released her in the first place”, he whispered to Soraya.

“You are correct”, she began, “I only wished for her to flee this awful place.  The people here permit themselves to see her only one way.  Perhaps eyes belonging to others would see her as something else.  Something other than a beast”.

Their exchange was interrupted by the sound of the door to the hallway to the cells, and the noise of footsteps moving slowly towards them.  A female figure appeared, her face and head sheathed by a head covering which she drew back to reveal a middle-aged woman bearing a pointy face marked by lifetime of anger.

“Mother”, breathed the little girl, expressing both surprise and terror.

“That’s right”, said the woman, “I thought I smelled your foul stench”.

The little girl’s eyes fell to the floor as her mother’s words struck her like jagged rocks.

“We do not mean cause offence, merely correct the injustice of this poor child behind bars”, came Percival as he stood to squarely face the lady.  From her demeanour, it was clear that she was brimming with a barely contained rage at the sight of her daughter.

“Child?”, the woman scoffed, “That’s a lark.  I used to see her as such as well, unwanted though she was, I welcomed the miracle of birth.  But day by day, as she caused my burden to grow, I watched her skin blacken and her shadow grow longer”.

The woman moved closer, taking hold of the prison bars with both hands as she locked eyes with the little girl, “Our lives would have been better without you, beast of burden!”, she hissed, “And I curse the day I shat you out”.

“That’s quite enough!”, snapped Soraya, weary of the woman’s abuse.

Having expunged the contents of her mind onto the now weeping child, the woman stepped away from the bars and floated down the hallway, but not before firing a parting shot.

“Has she spoken her name yet?”, she asked with a wry smile.

Percival and Soraya looked at each other and realised that despite their indignance at her mistreatment and their noble plan to spring her, they did not know the little girl’s appellation.

“Her name is Disease.  I named her so because she was the cause of my dis-ease”.  And with that thorny remark and a swish of her robes, the woman left, leaving stunned silence in her wake.

“Is it true?  Your name?”, Soraya asked the girl.

“Yes”, she replied sheepishly, “I dare not speak it aloud”.

“Is that the reason the townsfolk claim to see you in beastly form?”, asked Percival.

“I do not know; they merely call me a beast and have done so since I was an infant.  They say my skin is black and that my face is put on sideways with seven eyes and fifteen mouths”.

As she spoke, the girl reached into her satchel and extracted the two halves of the snake that had been killed by Primus’ spear.  Soraya grimaced, for the sorry carcass was a gruesome sight.  Holding the two pieces together, the girl closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as she concentrated upon the dead animal.  A moment later, the serpent reanimated, whole again and with no sign of injury.   

“Astonishing”, gasped Soraya.

“Be careful”, cautioned Percival, “Snakes can be deadly”.

“Not to me”, said the girl, “When I look into his eyes, I can feel the heartbeat of all creation”.

The girl unhanded the snake who happily slithered away, disappearing through the bars of the cell.

“This must be it”, reasoned Soraya, “Your gift of healing.  This is the truth beneath the people’s fear of you”.

“If that is fact, then we must leave this place”, Percival knelt before the girl, lowering himself to meet her eyes, “I bring tidings from happier places – free from scorn.  I know this because I have been there and known their kindness for myself.  We can leave this town – together if you wish – and you need never be a beast again”.

The girl beamed at him, hearing the earnestness of his tone.  She rose and nonchalantly moved to the cell door.  Placing her hand upon its fastened iron lock, she closed her eyes just as she had done with the snake.  A soft “clunk” could be heard from inside the lock as the door swung open.

“If you could do that the entire time, then why do you stay caged?”, Soraya asked the girl, incredulous.

“The people’s iron bars do not cage me so much as their words”.

***

Outside the constabulary building Percival, Soraya and the girl were pleased to see the assembled crowd’s attention was still directed towards the small platform where the magician was busily incanting.  Soraya threw her arms around the girl and whispered crucial instructions:

“You must leave here at once.  If you travel eastward past the old mill you will come to my brother’s house.  Tell him I have sent you.  He will provide you with a hardy steed and provisions for a few days”.

“Beast!”, shouted an old woman, causing others in the crowd to turn and face the three fugitives, “Beast!”, the crone called out again, pointing at the girl with a haggard index finger.

Of the assembled group whose attention had been caught, among them was the girl’s mother.

“Disease!”, she spat, her tone razor sharp.

Just then a great gasp went up from the crowd, originating from those closest to the incantation.  Unbeknownst to Percival and Soraya, Allozade had paused – mid sentence – and was tightly grasping at his chest with both hands.  He fell forward, his face contorting in agony as all eyes were quickly diverted by the old man’s distress.  Primus and the members of the Sisterhood snapped into action, surrounding him as the mass rushed forward to gawk at the occurrence.  Moving gracefully through the crowd, Soraya approached the stage with Percival – now clasping the little girl’s hand – trailing behind her.  The sight of the girl, brazenly moving about in the open made the townspeople bristle.  Recoiling, they moved aside, making a clear path through which she could pass.  Conscious and now laid upon his back, Allozade’s face had grown pale and his breathing shallow.

“It looks to be his heart”, diagnosed Soraya, “It has given up.  No spell can heal it.  Allozade is not long for the world.  Soon he’ll return to nature”.

“Silence”, barked Primus who suddenly appeared, enraged that her prisoners had escaped, “I might have known.  The beast and her defenders.  Your words are not welcome here!”.

“Hush, Primus”, snapped Soraya, “You’ll find your mouth an able cage for your tongue if you’d simply close your teeth.  Or are you incapable of thoughts not provided by Allozade?”

Incensed, Primus contained her temper, finding no value in continued sparring.  She issued forth orders to her fellow Sisters, “You – move those people back – allow us some space!  You – run and fetch sage and tallow root so that we might conduct a healing spell!”

Braving the commotion, the little girl stepped forward, separating herself from Percival’s protective grasp.

“I can save him”, she said softly, seeking Percival’s eyes for permission, “If you permit me, I can drag him from the void”.

Even through her mask, Primus’s appeared sceptical.  Soraya too raised a wary brow, certain that such a supernatural demonstration in full view of the entire town would likely result in their execution.

“It’s true”, came Percival, “I have seen her abilities for myself”.

“No!”, yelled Allozade as he gasped for air, “Do not allow that goblin to approach me – I intend to leave this world untouched by blackness! 

Spraying saliva with his words, the old magician seemed ferociously angry, even as his final moment approached him. 

“You have been touched by ignorance, magician.  This girl can save your life”, chided Soraya.

“My magic will save me, in this life, and the hereafter!”

“Your magic is false, Allozade, don’t you see?”, started Percival, “It is words without meaning.  Ritual with no purpose.  You offer sedation to the masses while decrying the very thing you have been complicit in creating”.

Soraya offered Percival a sly grin, impressed by his outburst.  Percival reached out for the little girl’s hand, “When I met her, I knew not her name, and accordingly I saw only a girl.  If she is truly a beast then she is a beast of your own creation.  You deny the simplest magic of all – words”.

Percival looked out upon the crowd and locked eyes with the girl’s mother, “You called this child disease and so that is what she became.  Her name was not given as a blessing but a curse – borne from a mother’s resentment.  She has the ability to bestow life where none exists.  Only a fool would refuse her ministration”.

“No!”, repeated Allozade his desperate grimace twisting even further, “I will not be tainted by agents of the underworld.  Wretched child!  I will denounce you until my final breath!  May you enter the fire and be damned!”

Clutching at his chest once more, Allozade let out an unholy cry as he writhed about the floor as the searing pain of his failing heart sliced through him.  Bearing the items they’d been ordered to retrieve, the Sisterhood formed an iron ring around him as the concerned crowd surged and rushed closer.

“The wheel turns for Allozade”, whispered Soraya to Percival and the girl, “If he craves the void, I say let him have it.  Avail yourself of this distraction and leave as I instructed”.

“But what of you?  Are you not imperilled here?”, replied Percival.

“I think not.  They are backwards but they are my people.  I will remain and tend my books.  With Allozade in his grave perhaps I can one day light the path from ignorance”.

“You have my thanks, Soraya”, said Percival, as he hastily clasped the woman’s hand.

“There is no need of gratitude. To gaze upon your aspect, was no chore”.

With a reassuring smile, Soraya bid farewell to Percival and the girl as they crept away from the crowd.

Thoughts create words, and our words in turn create the universe around us.  If this precept is true, then words themselves are the most powerful magic of all.  Names are also words, and so they themselves determine and forge us in ways we do not always comprehend.  The names our parents give us may be either tribulation or benediction in equal measure.  Conversely, the names we choose ourselves form a covenant with the future and are the shape we willingly choose to assume.

As the two swiftly made their way down the street and further away from the town, the girl caught a glimpse of herself in one of the shop windows.  She paused, momentarily, to look upon the most extraordinary sight she had ever beheld – the image of a little girl – reflected back at her.

SHORT STORY: Kevin Speaks To The Manager

Kevin sat alone in his study typing at his keyboard.  At forty-two, he had never married, pursued a career or made any genuine friends to speak of.  It wasn’t entirely his fault.  Kevin’s sour disposition and his propensity for abuse made relationships difficult, if not downright impossible.  On this particular day, he was engaged his in his favourite activity – writing.

“Number seventeen: birds too loud and numerous”, he whispered to himself as he fingered the keys of his antique typewriter. 

Of course, he could easily afford a more modern writing implement, but her preferred the elegance of the typewriter.  They keys made a satisfying “clacking” sound, and they were able to withstand the angry pounding of his digits, the very act of composition often mirroring the ornery content he produced.  Letters to the editor.  Furious rebuttals.  Fashioning his written words into sharpened points, he could sometimes become delirious with rage, lost in the jaunty kinetic endeavour.

“I’ve brought your drink sir”, came a voice from behind him. 

It was Raymond, an obsequious scarecrow, frightened of his own shadow.  He gingerly held a tray upon which some biscuits and hot tea stately sat.  Without looking, Kevin reached out for the cup, accidentally scalding himself in the process.

“I asked you for a cold drink!  Cold!”, he snapped as he snatched the teacup and hurled the boiling liquid onto Raymond’s face.  The poor scarecrow grimaced in pain, determined to preserve what little dignity he had left as the burning liquid slowly seeped into his face.

“I’m sorry master.  I didn’t know”, he cowered as he cleaned the mess up off the floor.

“Don’t you know how important my work is?  Get it right this time, lest you feel the back of my hand again!” roared Kevin as he turned his attention back to his typewriter.

“Yes master”.

Now quaking, Raymond collected himself and scurried out of the room as his master continued typing, pausing intermittently to scratch his chin or correct an occasional mistake.  He knew well enough to take his master’s threats seriously.  In the past, he’d committed heinous acts against him, inspired and fuelled by a never-ending wellspring of anger.

As his archaic word processor made a pleasant “ding”, signifying the end of a sentence, Kevin struck the last key with a flourish before extracting the sheet of paper.

“Let’s see what that preposterous King has to say about this”, he smiled smugly to himself as he folded the paper in three. 

Moving towards his cupboard, he put on his great coat and tucked the letter into one of the inside pockets carefully.  Sliding an old rucksack out from underneath his bed, he packed a small selection of sundry items.  Raymond appeared again, standing in the doorway of his bedroom holding the cold drink that Kevin had both demanded and forgotten about.

“Are you going out, Master?”, queried Raymond

“Now Raymond, you know better than to ask questions above your station.”

“Yes Master”.

“But you’re quite correct, I am leaving the house.  I shouldn’t be longer than a few days.  And I wish to see this house spotless upon my return”.

“Yes Master”.

“And don’t let me find out that you’ve left the house again, or so help me you’ll spend another year searching for your brain!”.

“Yes Master.  Of course not master”, replied Raymond, trembling.

Scooping up his bag, Kevin strode out the front door.  As he bolted it shut (from the outside), he was met with a familiarly irritating annoyance.

“Going out, dear?  Looks like you’re all set for an adventure”.

Oh God.  Not again.  He thought as he steeled himself for another bothersome interaction with his next-door neighbour Mrs Gale. 

“I don’t get out of the house too much these days.  Not since the accident” she continued.

More than a hundred years old in Kevin’s estimation, Mrs Gale spent most of her days sitting in her wheelchair on her front porch.  Starved of attention, she would accost anyone willing to engage her in a bit of amiable conversation.  Kevin often wished that she would simply hurry up and die.  If she caught sight of him, she’d begin pestering him within seconds.  Bombarding him with the sorry minutia of her life and as she sat in her chair, forever knitting with her blasted needles.  What was she making?  No once had Kevin seen her produce so much as a scarf. He had no tolerance for stupid or foolish people - it was bad enough that he had to put up with that loathsome scarecrow. 

“Of course, if I could go anywhere it would be into town to enlist the services of a Metallic Man to come and trim that tree.  Those blessed birds have been keeping me awake for weeks now”.

Unable to resist, Kevin’s vanity betrayed him.

“Well, it might interest you to know that those very birds constitute just one such complaint on my list”.

“List, dear?”

“Yes.  A list of complaints I intend to bring to the King of System”, Kevin extracted the folded sheet of paper from his pocket for dramatic effect.  “I’ve written to him a number of times, but thus far he hasn’t had the decency to reply.  I intend to bring my complaints to his attention personally.  In fact, I’m on my way to his Cloud Palace right now”

“The Cloud Palace?  No one really knows where that is, dear.  Some even say it’s a myth.”

“It’s no myth, and I’m confident I’ll be able to find it on my own”.

“All right, dear.  But be careful.  All sorts of funny stories about the King”.

She was right – the King of System - as he was known, was indeed a figure of great mystique.  In point of fact, his entire existence was shrouded by swirling rumour, innuendo and accusations of supernatural parentage.  Some said he was a sorcerer who had the ability to change form.  Others accused him of engaging in dark magic and occult ritual.  Most outlandish of all the rumours was that he himself, had created the entire world.  As a man of empiricism, Kevin knew better than to subscribe to such fantasies.  In his estimation, the King of System was a man, nothing more.

“I’m aware of such stories.  Quite fantastic.  I’m sure they’re nothing more than idle gossip”.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.  I believe he and I to be two men of equal intellect.  I should think he’d be eager to converse with me”.

“Well I hope he doesn’t disappoint you, Kevin.  Conversation is a blessing, dear.  I should know.  Life gets lonely when you’re old and on your own.  Maybe I’ll pop in on Raymond while you’re gone.  See how he’s faring”.

“Raymond has chores to attend to Mrs Gale, I’d appreciate it if you left him be”.

“As you wish, dear.  I wonder if you’ve heard about-”.

“I’m sorry Mrs Gale, but I really must be going”.

“Oh.  All right dear.  I understand.  You young people are always so busy, rushing about from one place to another…”.

Offering a perfunctory wave, Kevin began walking, glad to be free of Mrs Gale and her endless prattle.  He proceeded down his garden path and into the great swathes of untamed landscape that surrounded his neighbourhood.  He cautiously stepped over the barbed wire fence he’d erected to keep out interlopers and marched confidently into hitherto unexplored territory.  After walking for almost an hour, he paused to unfurl the map he’d brought with him in order to confirm his position at the entrance of the forest.

As he entered the dense thicket, Kevin found the forest no different than any other he’d seen before, with tall trees rising like columns out of the ground.  The terrain was uneven, and large protruding roots made vigilance essential if he wanted to avoid tripping and falling upon his face. 

By his estimation, he’d been ambulating for almost an hour.  The sun had ascended to its midday position when Kevin heard a strange noise coming from up ahead.  Moving closer to investigate, he discerned a faint metallic sound, a sort of “clanking”.  As he reached a clearing, he came across a Metallic Man, sobbing before a grave site.  Startled, the man turned to see Kevin emerge from the trees.

“Hello…”, managed the Metallic Man through his tears.

“Why are you crying?” asked Kevin.

“My human.  He’s stopped.  He was alive for many years and then one day he just… stopped”.

“It happens.  It’s called death”.

“We were together for so many years.  He was the only friend I’ve ever known.  Now I don’t know if I’m able to continue without him”.

It was quite a sight – this hulking silver coloured man – easily approaching seven feet – mourning the death of his human companion.  From the dates inscribed on the headstone, Kevin assumed the human in question had simply expired naturally, leaving the poor Metallic Man alone.

“You shouldn’t cry”, began Kevin, “Grief serves no useful purpose.  It’s better to simply move on and accept things as they are”.

“But…how can I?”, wept the Metallic Man, “I’ve lived my whole life with my human.  I’m scared to be by myself.  My body may be strong, but my nature is gentle.  Will you stay with me a while?  I would value the company of a friend, especially now”.

Identifying an opportunity, Kevin carefully assessed the situation before him.  Metallic men were indigenous to the forest.  Known for their great physical strength and helpful nature, they were regarded favourably by those who lived in the surrounding communities.  Given his emotional display, Kevin felt confident that this particular specimen wouldn’t pose a threat.

“I am growing awfully tired of carrying this bag” said Kevin, “Perhaps you should carry it for me?”

“I don’t understand…”

“I have no need of friends, but I would value a servant” said Kevin coolly as he reached for a nearby oil can resting upon a log.

“Hey!  That’s my oil can!  I need that to live!”

“Your oil is now my oil, by way of my action”.

Pocketing the oil can, Kevin expectantly dropped his rucksack by the Metallic Man’s feet and casually walked away, continuing into the forest.

“If you hope to see any more of this oil, you’d be wise to do as I say”.

Terrified, the Metallic Man obliged, plucking Kevin’s bag up from the ground as he tearfully assumed his subservient new role.  Traversing more rough terrain, the two proceeded through the forest once more, the Metallic Man trailing a few feet behind.  It was Kevin who first heard the faint sound of music coming from up ahead.  The musician was a small round man who whistled a jolly tune to himself as he lay bricks upon a small cottage.

“Ah!  A friend!  And a magnificent Metallic Man!  What good fortune!” said the man excitedly as he noticed them both, “Come closer, so that I might know you better!”

As they entered the round man’s encampment, he welcomed them warmly.

“You’re just in time.  I’m almost finished – only six or seven bricks left to go.  If you stay a while, you’ll see me cross the finish line”.

“Finish line?”

“Yes, I’ve been trying to build my own home.  As you can see, I’m almost finished.  Each and every brick laid with my own two hands.  But, please forgive me – where are my manners.  My name is Severin”.

“Kevin”.

“Pleased to meet you Kevin”.

The Metallic Man was silent, afraid of being scolded.

 “You’ll forgive me if I continue working while we talk”, said Severin, “I’m trying to finish before sundown.  I don’t have much to go and I don’t wish to lose my momentum!” said Severin as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Not at all, I understand completely”, replied Kevin as the Metallic Man viewed the round man’s house with great interest.

“So, are you lost? “, he asked as he sculpted a small pile of mortar onto a new brick.

“Not really.  I’m on my way to see the King of System.  Have you heard of him?”

“Of course, I imagine everyone has”.

“Then you know how to get to the Cloud Palace?”

“Indeed I do.  It’s not far from here.  Keep going the way you were for a few hundred meters until you come to a rock shaped like a Ram.  Proceed over the next hill after that and you’ll come to the base of the great vine that leads up to the palace”

“It’s a beautiful home.  Why did you choose to build it here?”, offered the Metallic Man sheepishly, finally mustering enough confidence to speak.

“Ah! Thank you, my shiny friend.  I suppose here seemed as good a place as any.  I first came to the forest many months ago.  I was searching for God, but this task found me instead.  Building teaches discipline and patience and is good for the soul.  To create something is so much more difficult than it is to destroy”.

“I think it’s wonderful” proclaimed the Metallic Man in awe as he inspected the house. A testament to Severin’s ingenuity, the tiny dwelling was replete with a small chimney and a fully tiled roof.  With the exception of a front door, which lay open to the forest, it was almost done.

“Pfft.  God”, scoffed Kevin, “God is dead.  Both as a concept and as an entity”.

“Don’t be so certain”, cautioned Severin, “Aren’t you on a journey to see the King of System?  Is he not unlike a God in some ways?”

“Nonsense.  The King is nothing more than a man, no different to you or I”.

“Perhaps.  No one really knows for certain.  But seeking God is a worthy pursuit, so I wish you luck.  And there it is”, Severin declared as he ceremonially set down the brick he was holding, “The final brick.  My task is complete!”.  He stood a few feet back to lovingly admire his handiwork.

“Congratulations, and thank you for the directions” Kevin said in mock admiration as Severin knelt in prayer at the entrance to his new abode.  As he whispered an ancient blessing, Kevin sidled up to the Metallic Man with a conspiratorial glint in his eye:

“Are you able to detach your arm?”, he muttered softly, attempting nonchalance.

“Yes of course I am - why do you ask?”

“Give it to me, I demand it” hissed Kevin as the Metallic Man complied.

With a mechanical clunk, he detached his right arm as though it were perfectly natural.  Unharmed, he handed the inert limb to Kevin whose eyes were wide with ill intent.  Moving softly, like a predator, Kevin snuck up behind Severin as he prayed and struck him hard on the back of the head.  Instantly, the round man collapsed into a heap, his face hitting the ground with an unceremonious thud.  A small pool of blood emerged from the wound and soon grew larger as he lay there, motionless.

“Assist me!”, ordered Kevin, as the now one-armed Metallic Man looked on in horror as Kevin began moving bricks from a nearby reservoir into the empty doorway – Severin still inside.

“What are you doing!?”, he shouted as Kevin gradually turned the newly constructed entrance into a solid wall.

“Isn’t it clear?  He told me the location of the Cloud Palace.  That knowledge is for me alone.  Now his precious home will be a mausoleum”.

The Metallic Man felt nauseous.

“Don’t you have any consideration for others?” he asked in disbelief.

“No. Why should I be concerned about others.  Their free will is no less than mine.  They have what they have, and I have myself.”

After the pair finished bricking up the entrance to Severin’s house, they travelled as he had instructed, the Metallic Man weeping as he walked, traumatised by what he’d just witnessed.  They walked past the Ram shaped rock and over the hill where they arrived at the base of the great vine.  It was nothing like Kevin had imagined.  Reaching up into the sky like a great arm, it was dry and twisted and its base was several meters in diameter.

Unprompted, Kevin climbed onto the Metallic Man’s back, wrapping his hands around his neck, then allowing his body to go limp.

“Climb”, he ordered.

“I can’t climb all that!”

“Fine.  Then I’ll have to climb it alone.  You can stay here without your oil and rot and rust until you die”.

Given little choice but to comply, the Metallic Man began climbing the gnarly vine while carrying Kevin upon his back.  He made his ascent slowly, carefully searching for new footholds with each movement.  As they gained altitude, the air grew thinner, and the possibility of falling grew ever more daunting.  Whether composed of metal or human flesh, a fall from such a height would undoubtedly be fatal for the both of them, so the Metallic Man moved cautiously.

“I’m weary, and my limbs are growing stiff.  Might I have a little oil?” he begged, pausing in fatigue.

“No.  I will return your oil to you when we reach the summit and not a moment before”.

As the pair ascended, the vine itself grew thinner as it reached a thick outcropping of white clouds suspended in the sky.  Grasping at the leading edge of the cloud, the Metallic Man found that it was semi-solid and clawed his way up onto it.  As he collapsed in exhaustion, Kevin clambered off his back and stood proudly on the strange, springy surface.  It had a pleasant texture, not unlike walking upon thick cotton or wool.  Peering over the precipice, the forest looked minuscule, many hundreds of meters below from their vantage point upon a preternatural platform in the air.

As the Metallic Man gathered his strength after the taxing climb, Kevin explored the white landscape in which he found himself.  Cool wind blew tufts of white cloud about the place, partially obscuring his vision, but moving just long enough to reveal a structure not formed by nature.  A building.  No ordinary building, but a castle.  Composed of azure bricks, it boasted spires of dazzling height that seemed to extend up into the heavens themselves.

Reaching into his pocket, Kevin extracted the oil can he’d been keeping and tossed it towards the Metallic Man.  It landed at his feet.

“I have no further need of you”.

A wave of terror swept over the metal man’s face.

“But where should I go?”, he asked, tears again welling in his eyes.

“That’s not my concern”, Kevin shrugged as he began searching for the entrance to the structure. 

Dispirited, the Metallic Man wearily reached out for his oil can, but instead collapsed onto the cloud surface in despair rather than exhaustion.  Using his left hand, he reached across his chest and tore off his right arm.  No longer able to contain the offence at having his own arm used to bludgeon a peaceful man, he cast it aside and let out an ungodly howl before bursting into tears.

What a ludicrous display.  He really should have more control of himself, thought Kevin as he disregarded his former servant and turned his attention to the castle.  After a few minutes, he found a large wooden door.  He rapped upon it resolutely then waited a few moments.  Nothing.  Rapidly growing impatient, he began to pound on the door with his fists.

“King of System!  I have travelled far!”

His impatience turning to mania, Kevin pounded the door a few times more.  He was entitled, he felt, to an audience with the King.  After traversing such a great distance and taking the time and trouble to properly formulate his list of complaints, a few moments of his time was the absolute least that the king could provide him

“Was it as you expected?”

That voice.  That irritating voice.  Kevin turned to see Mrs Gale in her wheelchair emerge from the cloudy mists.

“Is this what you wanted to see?  The great Cloud Palace in all its majesty?” the old woman asked as she slowly rose from her chair, still clutching knitting needles in hand.

“Mrs Gale?  How can you be here?”

“To royalty, all things are possible”

“Royalty?  What are you saying old woman?  Are you saying that you know the King?  If you do then you must beseech him to speak with me immediately!”

Serpentine, she glided towards him, no longer the doddering old fool that resided next door.

“Know him?  I am him.  In any form, at any time”. 

“You?”, Kevin spat in disbelief.

“Yes.  Shape is nothing more than a container, dear”, she began, “And I’ve been watching you closely.  You’ve painted your path in blood”.

“Yes.  I let no obstacle get in my way”.

“That’s true.  You couldn’t even make time to converse with a lonely old woman”.

“I didn’t know!  I had to get my list to the King!”, Kevin protested as plunged his hand into his coat and fumbled for the list, brandishing it furiously before the old woman’s face.

“Others seek wisdom, you only seek to complain.  If Karma is action driven by intent, then your intent is corrupt, impure.  My compassion is infinite, but this is a fate of your own creation, and this story could end no other way.  You repayed kindness with cruelty and you responded to wisdom with violence”.  The natural order is for you to return to nothingness”.

“No!  That’s not right!  Speak to me!  Listen to me!”

“The King of System only listens to those whose hearts have been touched.  You have failed to learn this lesson, so I will touch it for you, using the only language you can comprehend”.

Stepping forward, Mrs Gale took one of her knitting needles and in one, short, sharp motion, pushed it through Kevin’s chest – piercing his heart.

Stunned, he simply stared at her – his mouth agape in surprise and terror.  Almost immediately, blood spewed forth from his lips as he clutched the needle inserted into his chest and collapsed onto the fluffy clouds beneath his feet.  As Kevin’s body seized in excruciating agony, Mrs Gale stood over his body, her expression a mask of quiet contentment.

“Not every path ends in reward, dear.  This dialogue in itself is a courtesy”.

“But…my list…I wrote my list…on my typewriter”, he struggled as his blood stained the surrounding clouds pink.

“The King has just such a device himself.  To him, you are but a fiction.  A non-person.  Nothing”.

“Then what am I?”

“A stray neuron.  A thought.  You’re nothing more than the universe staring at its own belly button”

Kevin grew more panicked as he saw more blood now pouring from the wound in his chest.  His extremities began to feel numb and he could feel the moment of his death fast approaching.

“What’s to become of me?”, he asked, his voice now little more than a whisper.

“Nothing.  I’ve already forgotten you were here”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SHORT STORY: First Communion

I was awoken by Dad opening the door to my bedroom.  He urged me to ger dressed.  It was early – too early in fact – and the strange blue light of the morning permeated my bedroom curtains.  As my feet hit the floor, I wiped the sleep (or lack thereof) out of my eyes and followed Dad down the hall to the garage where we got into the car.  Ambivalent birds sung their dawn chorus as we drive through the empty streets.  Too early for traffic.  My thoughts still foggy, I stared out the passenger side window, watching as the street lights silently winked off.

“What about Mum and Jamie?”, I asked, through a yawn.

“They’ll be waiting for you when we get home.  You’ll see”.

When we arrived at the hospital, everything happened just as Dad had told me it would.  He stood there proudly, watching me give the nurse at the front desk my name and all my details. 

“Samuel Gladstone.  Age Ten”.

Pretty soon, I donned a hospital gown, the type that tied up at the back with flimsy strings leaving bare arse cheeks exposed.  Once again, I found myself in clothes that made me feel foolish, but Dad seemed pleased as he silently observed from the sidelines, admiring my youthful composure and self-reliance.

***

That day was the culmination of a series of events that began the Friday before my First Communion.  It started when the priest first came to our house.  I remember it distinctly. Mum was in the kitchen cooking, Dad reading his paper and Jamie, my little brother was enduring yet another piano lesson in the spare room.  The sound of him awkwardly playing the scales echoed throughout the house while his piano teacher, Mrs Pritchard, sat beside him wincing disapprovingly.  Though I was a few years older than Jamie, and mercifully spared such lessons, I hated Mrs Pritchard.  She always smelled of pickled vegetables and wore a permanent scowl.

“Sam!”, called Dad a few moments after the doorbell had rung.  I bounded down the long corridor of our house to see Father Medici clumsily wheeling a large, steel trolley through our front door.  It was cumbersome, like the ones at the supermarket, and contained an assortment of semi translucent plastic containers, each one sealed tightly.

“Hello Samuel”, offered our parish priest through a fraudulent smile, “I’ve brought some options for you and your father to take a look at”. 

It was weird to see him out of context, almost as if his powers were diminished by virtue of being outside the church and wearing “street” clothes like the rest of us.  I never warmed to Father Medici, I’m not sure why.  Dad seemed to like him, but there was something about him I found disagreeable.  He was insincere, smarmy like a used car salesman.  Even as a child, I could detect it.  In the kitchen, I could hear the sound of vegetables being chopped come to a halt.  Mum didn’t like Father Medici either.

“Don’t be afraid, son” said Dad as he guided me towards the trolley to examine my choices. 

There were so many.  Some larger than others.  Different colours.  Some were squirming horribly, while others simply slept, apparently unphased by my presence.  I’d never been this close before – I had no idea what was expected of me or what criteria I should have used to choose properly.  I was told my choice was important, especially as it concerned my First Communion.  In the end, I merely picked at random.

“That one”, I said, selecting a black and white striped one of intermediate size.

“Excellent choice” grinned Father Medici, a set of false teeth on full display.

Dad placed his masculine, spatula like hands upon my shoulders and squeezed them with pride.  His hands felt warm, but his approval felt warmer. He chatted with the priest outside the house for a short spell as he loaded the trolley back onto the van he’d driven.  I watched them both from the living room window, peering through a curtain.  Just then, Nana entered the room, she clapped her hands together in anticipation.

“Oh Samuel”, she said in her old Polish brogue, “How quickly time passes.  Just think, this time tomorrow you’ll be a man”. 

She wrapped her arms around me, dispensing the type of embrace that only a grandmother can.  Unconditional, and free from parental expectations.   The sound of scales rang out throughout the house, yet again.  Stupid Jamie.

The next day, anticipation filled the air.  Mum had been up since 5am cooking, preparing food in vast quantities for the party we’d have after the church ceremony.  Annoyingly, I was awoken my Jamie, rifling through my belongings.  He’d often make himself at home in my bedroom while I slept.

“Get out of here Jamie!”  I shouted, hurling a pillow at his head and missing.

“I don’t understand why the whole house has stop for your stupid First Communion”, he spat, before issuing his customary raspberry and leaving.

Mum came in not long afterwards, “Ignore him.  It’ll be his turn in a few years.  Maybe then he’ll understand”.

After I bathed and brushed my teeth, it was time to get ready.  It took me ages to put on my suit.  I’d never worn one before.   I managed to put on my cummerbund, but Mum had to help me with the bow tie.  Now dressed, I inspected myself in the mirror and immediately hated what I saw.  I looked like a tiny penguin.  Despite feeling stupid, and the general itchiness of my attire, Mum said I looked handsome and that it was only proper to dress up for such a momentous occasion. 

Before we left, Nana got her camera out to take a photo of me.  She looked at me longingly, as if she were trying to preserve that particular moment in time.  It was an expression I’d never seen before.  I wondered where Dad was.  I hadn’t seen him all morning.

At the church, the air was thick with incense.  It was a Saturday, and the church was full of people.  I loitered about the entrance with a bunch of other boys who were also making their first communion that day.  I knew some of them from school.  There was Danny.  He waved at me excitedly.  He was wearing a suit too, except his was grey.  Father Medici made an appearance, now clothed in his gaudy vestments.  He shook all our hands in a half-hearted attempt at ingratiation. 

When the mass began, we all followed him down the aisle as the opening hymn was sung.  As I passed the many faces of the congregation, all prideful and solemn, I contemplated the sacrament before me.  First communion – but communion with what?  Despite the potent reactions from the adults around me, it all seemed so insubstantial.  A rite of passage into manhood, no more significant than a mere birthday.

We reached the altar, and Father Medici ascended the handful of steps to the podium while we waited in line, as though presented before the congregation for their viewing pleasure.  I spotted Mum in the crowd; she was sitting with Danny’s family.  She watched me intently, discreetly wiping a tear from her eye, hoping no one would notice.

Father Medici began to speak.  I’m sure it was important but my mind had started wandering (as it sometimes did).  My attention was drawn to the large crucifix behind the altar.  Our lord and saviour Jesus Christ, nails through his hands suspended above an ophidian.  Someone handed me a candle to hold as the choir began yet another dreadful song.  The wax smelled old, and the flame illuminated my face.  Eventually, it was time for the scripture reading.  The priest approached the podium again.

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things” the priest droned on as I tried my utmost to summon my concentration.  I scanned the crowd once more, finally catching sight of Dad.  His face was stern and serious.  Why wasn’t he sitting with Mum?

After what felt like forever, the moment arrived – a thin wafer and a sip of awful tasting wine.  Camera flashes aplenty, and for a moment, I remember feeling everyone’s eyes upon me.  It was euphoric.  Not long afterwards, the mass was concluded and Mum and Dad, now together, rushed towards me to offer their congratulations.  Mum cast her arms around me, squeezing me tight, while Dad offered an understated backslap.

“Remember son, today’s only window dressing.  The real ceremony happens tomorrow”.   He was right, I guess.  From what I’d been told, the next day would be quite different.

I left the church with my family joyfully and traversed a short distance to the community hall where the party was to take place.  There was a band and a huge cake with my name on it.

“Congratulations!” and “Good luck tomorrow”, came the string of well wishes from cousins, rarely seen aunties and various octogenarians who’d crawled out of the woodwork just to pinch my cheeks.  It was the biggest party I’d ever seen, and, to crown the occasion was an entire table full of gifts – all for me. I crossed my fingers, hoping for video games and a set of bongo drums, but past experience cautioned me that books and clothes were more likely.

We ate and drank and danced until the evening became the night, and I bid farewell to the friends and family who’d come to see me.  Poor Jamie threw up by the bins outside – too much cake.  Served him right.  At home, I cast aside my itchy suit and crawled into bed where I quickly drifted off into a golden, dreamless sleep.

***

It all seemed a world away from me now, as I lay in my hospital bed, patiently waiting.  All of the necessary forms had been filled out, and I had been given a plastic wristband which bore my name and birthday.  Before too long a friendly orderly came to wheel me into the operating theatre where masked doctors were waiting.  I drank in my surroundings, noting the steel accoutrements, harsh LED lighting and the blue latex gloves everybody wore.  A nurse with gentle eyes rested her hand upon my chest in reassurance.  It felt warm.  The head surgeon, a tall man with wiry hair protruding from his mask introduced himself.

“Hello Sam.  How are you feeling today?”

“Fine.  I guess”, I replied, unsure of how one should be feeling mere minutes before surgery.

“What we’re going to do today is make a transverse incision, along your abdomen.  When we reach the large intestine, we’ll make a smaller incision into which we’ll place your implant”.

I nodded in agreement.

“Nurse, bring in the implant, please”.

The gentle eyed nurse disappeared from the room for a minute, and returned with a translucent plastic container, exactly like the one on Father Medici’s trolley.  Inside was the snake I had chosen just a few days earlier.  There it was, glistening and livelier this time; I could hear its distinctive, breathy hiss from inside its plastic prison.  Vermicella Annulata – its proper name, was hastily scrawled upon one side of its container in black marker.

As the surgeon prepared me for the anaesthetic, instructing me to count backwards from one hundred, the snake and I locked eyes.  Its serpentine visage looked back at me with cold indifference.  The edges of the room grew fuzzy, and my eyelids became leaden as I started to succumb to the irresistible urge to fall asleep.  Sinking beneath the inky blackness of unconsciousness, I wondered if this was what my death would feel like.

***

Dad was there, waiting for me when I woke up in my hospital room just a few hours later.

“Don’t touch them”, he cautioned as I examined my stitches and the large scar that ran across my stomach, “They won’t heal properly if you mess with them”. 

Father Medici was there for some reason.  I wondered why.  He and Dad shook hands and seemed quite pleased with themselves.  As my drug induced stupor began to wear off, I recalled the surgery – why I was there. The snake.  The black and white striped snake that had been put inside me.  I could feel it, moving, churning, settling within me.  My insides felt cold, as though I’d drunk a few litres of ice water.

“You’ll get used to it” Dad simply said after I’d complained.  His words seemed distant and meaningless.

Back at home, things seemed different somehow.  I spent a few days suspecting that everyone had changed, but in reality, it was me who had been altered.  Mum was happy to have me home, though I carefully observed unguarded moments where she seemed to regard me with almost nervous apprehension.  Nana’s touch felt empty, and her tone with me no longer warm.  As for Jamie, he seemed terrified of me, staying well clear of my bedroom.  It was as if consciousness felt like a waking dream, or perhaps something even less than that.  Like the fading embers of a memory. I didn’t realise I’d feel this way.  Was this what First Communion was supposed to feel like?

I inspected myself in the mirror and felt nothing at all.  An absence of self, generated by the reptile now nestled permanently in my belly.  I stared, vacantly into my own empty eyes and could suddenly taste the annihilation of my boyhood.  It was deepest red, like arterial blood and roughly hewn as if from a woodsman’s axe.  An empty chasm where joy used to reside now supplanted by a simmering, calculating rage.

I’ll never forget the words Dad said to me in my hospital room after I’d awoken from surgery.  He said that he had been through the same procedure, as had his own father.  It was all part of the sacrament – First Communion – communion with the serpent, to take it inside you and make it a part of yourself.  It was the birthright of every male.  As the old priest opened up his prayer book and offered foolish words on my behalf, Dad clasped my hand tight and offered the following advice.

“Every man has a snake inside him.  It is what it means to be a man.  You must learn to control it son, or it will begin to control you”.

 

 

SHORT STORY: My Own Private Dollhouse

A long time ago, out of sheer boredom, I can assure you, I created some tiny people.  I fashioned them out of mud and clay, moulding them in my own image, careful to replicate every detail precisely.  Once I’d completed my homunculi, I imbued them with life and set them aside on a small rock to play.

I watched from a discreet distance as the tiny people began living their lives, bravely traipsing about the jagged landscape I had fashioned for them.  I provided them with vegetation - trees and plants - which they could consume and seek shelter beneath.  They carried on about their business blithely - blissfully unaware of my presence, so I sat back and contentedly allowed my creations to entertain me.  It was as if I had built my own private dollhouse.

As time passed, the mud men grew industrious, constructing rudimentary homes for themselves.  They used the vegetation to construct tools for hunting and soon began consuming the other forms of lower animal life that occupied the rock.  A basic economy was formed, and, as they began to discover the pleasures of their own bodies, the first mud babies appeared.

The population exploded as I viewed from the sidelines, quietly and with great interest.  Tribes became villages.  But as the mud men’s mastery over their environment grew, so too did their capacity for wickedness.  Soon enough, one mud man had murdered another – his closest friend – whom he decapitated over the affections of a woman.

What an intriguing development, I thought to myself as I marvelled at such a terrific act of barbarism. 

Villages became towns.  Towns became cities.  Mud huts once covered in hay soon became thatched, then reinforced, then built out of concrete and tiles and innumerable new materials that my mud men concocted to keep themselves alive and comfortable. 

But with their innovation came arrogance.  The mud men had become proud - too proud for my liking.  Groups of them splintered across the rock, forming factions derived from superstition and superficial differences.  I could see that some of the men in the eastern hemisphere embraced ideas of wisdom and accomplishment, but far too often such notions were obfuscated by a veneer of false virtue.  Weapons of war emerged – metallic machines that pierced the sky and were decorated with jags and spikes and painted in the colours of combat.

It was at this point I began to grow weary of the mud men, regretting their creation altogether.  Their industry no longer amused me and I felt the urge to teach them a lesson in patience.  Through my boredom, I had imbued them with sentience, but I still regarded them as mine to do with as I pleased.  Destructive yearnings welled within me. I could wash them away with floods or scorch the surface of their rock with flame.  Watching their tiny bodies burst and burn would surely entertain me, if only momentarily.  But of course, once they were gone, they would be gone for good, and I would have only the endless groaning of the cosmos to keep me company.  Faced with indecision, I sought counsel from my father, the King of System.  He listened thoughtfully as I conveyed the nature of my dilemma, and then, after a long silence, offered the following advice:

“All truth is a matter of perspective”.

I considered my father’s words carefully, and after much deliberation, resolved to obtain a fresh perspective.  A further experiment was required before doing away with my mud men entirely. I would manifest on their rock, occupying one of their bodies, and would live out one of their lifespans.  Annoyingly, I would not be permitted to retain any of my memories while on the rock – a wretched condition of the place itself.  No matter, it would only take a small amount of time – mud men rarely lived longer than 100 years – and it was sure to provide an amusing diversion. Curious about procreation and recognising that grace would be required for this endeavour, I decided to manifest in my female aspect.

The first thing I observed was the heaviness of the mud men existence.  Matter was solid and leaden, as was the tiny body I found myself encased in.  Initially, I was defenceless, beholden to my mud men parents to tend to my various needs.  The construct of linear time – a mud man creation – impacted me greatly as my physical form gestated and matured.

As my primitive neurology developed, so too did my avatar.  It was an unusual form, meat and bone bound by oily skin.  Months and years passed, and my arms and legs became stronger.  The growth of my extremities was curiously paralleled by my parent’s deterioration, slow but noticeable.  As I grew more capable, they grew weaker.  My father’s hair and beard lost its colour, and my mother’s movements became tired and deliberate.  Though I was loath to admit it, I had grown attached to them, fond even, if only in a minimal sense.  With gormless affection they had shepherded me into womanhood and watched over me when I was nothing more than a mewing potato in a blanket. 

More time passed, as it did on the rock, and my official instruction began.  Years upon years of indoctrination in what was laughably termed a “school”.  Ideas of group conformity washed over me each day as the other children – they too mere simpletons – forged tribal identities.  It was in spending time with my fellow juveniles that I came to understand the concept of cruelty, and the depth of the mud man capacity for it.  The children were exquisitely cruel to each other, ostracising outsiders and brutalising others they deemed unacceptable.  I wondered if the deep-seated sadness felt by all mud men was somehow the result of these awful little people.

But I had little time for lofty philosophical musings.  As I began my transition into my final form, my attention was turned to more pressing matters as my body began to scream out for the basic mud men appetites.  Food.  Sex.  Food.  Sex.  The compulsions were all consuming and surprisingly overwhelming.  I had noted, with disinterest, the primitive mud man desire to pair off, forming couples and other social units. Living together they engaged in a perpetual cycle of eating and mating.  I failed to understand the appeal, much preferring to keep most of myself to myself.

Then one day he appeared.

As if out of nowhere, he stood before me, as though he had manifested from outside of space and time, somehow separate from the reality I occupied.  I gazed at him longingly, intensely, at once astonished by the potency of my own reaction to him.  I’d never conceived of finding a mud man attractive, but there he was, resplendent in chestnut hair.  Emotions and other strange desires fermented inside me as I realised that while I was encased in this woman’s form, I too was nothing more than an animal, responding to instinct as any animal would.

The brown-haired man spoke, and his words showed me nothing but compassion.  Those words led to a life together, and that life led to the birth of a child.  For a brief period, I wondered if in the uncomplicated act of procreation, I had finally comprehended the meaning of mud man existence.

My brown-haired man and I busied ourselves with the minutia of everyday life, allowing the years to wash over us both as we stared at the television screen in a happy stupor.  I dutifully played the part in which I had been cast – wife and mother.  Surrendering the employment I had diligently obtained, I resigned myself to a life expended preparing frozen lasagne and cleaning the house.  Initially, these tasks held a certain fascination, and I was able to derive some simple satisfaction from them.  But, as the years wore on, I grew bored with the monotony.  Equally unrewarding was the task of raising a child.  My offspring, a daughter, was herself rapidly becoming an adult who seemed to resent me more with each passing day.

The subjective experience of life was akin to the waves of an ocean, with discreet events fading into memory forming either peak or trough.  There were good decades and bad decades, each peppered with episodes that provoked immense joy and profound sadness in equal measure.  The sight of my brown-haired man – his body broken inside a primitive automobile – was particularly distressing.  I shrouded his body and placed it in the ground as per the mud man custom, then spent many years alone in silence.

My child, now a woman of ferocious temperament, left the house where we had lived in order to seek her own adventure.  Secretly glad to be free of her burdensome presence, I pondered how to spend the remaining years of my life before I too succumbed to death.  The absence of my brown-haired man had left an empty chasm which I attempted to fill in varying ways.

I embraced material possessions, surrounding myself with “things” – filthy, useless things.  Clothing, elaborate jewellery and items of convenience filled my living space.  In spite of the considerable expense I’d exhausted acquiring them, I found their presence empty, and their silence quite objectionable.  I turned my attention to art, but found no solace there.  All works of art by mud men were amateurish and simplistic.  Whether examining the works of Da Vinci or the childishness of the Sistine Chapel, I felt nothing but scorn.  Truly, I experienced the full spectrum of mud man emotions, cautioning myself that while sometimes uncomfortable, no feeling was final.

Now, my body had grown infirm.  The bitter passage of linear time had degraded that vessel which contained my consciousness.  I slowed, generally speaking, both physically and cognitively.  As my bones became brittle, my thoughts turned increasingly towards death.

Residing in a prison not unlike the school from my childhood, I cohabitated with many other unwanted people who spent their time staring at walls and waiting for phone calls that never came.  This was the place where mud men discarded their elderly once they had outlived their usefulness.  Ignoring the false beliefs that the mud men designed to stave off fear of oblivion, I prepared for the end.  Mentally taking stock of my life’s accomplishments, I looked back at the road behind me and saw nothing noteworthy at all.

When the moment came, it was surprising, and without fanfare or ceremony.  I had simply fallen asleep in the place where mud men spend most of their lives – in front of the television.  It was fittingly poetic in its own way, emblematic of the sheer meaninglessness of it all.

I awoke – milliseconds later – in the exact place from where I had departed.  I had lived a life, and the dying embers of its imagery flickered across my consciousness, but soon faded.  I remembered my existence as a mud man – a mere mortal.  Fallible and vulnerable, breakable and prone to disease.  I was glad to have sloughed off that odious form.  As my recollections fled from me, I recalled my brown-haired man’s face, but could no longer remember his name.  It had all been sound and fury, signifying nothing.

The purpose of my experiment had been to gain a new perspective, and I had done so.  I no longer experienced the urge to cleanse the mud man rock with fire.  They were nothing more than an irritant, an insect buzzing past as I proceeded with my existence.  After my life among them, I wondered why I had even bothered.  They were unworthy of my attention.  I placed my experiences – and the rock on which the mud men lived – upon a forgotten shelf in my mind and turned my attention to other matters more befitting a being such as myself. 

I barely noticed, a short time later, as the solar winds of the cosmos dissolved the rock and all its inhabitants entirely, winking them out of existence, never to be seen or heard from again.

 

ARTICLE: Separation Anxiety

(This article was originally published in Wordly Magazine in May 2020.  You can read the original article here: https://wordlymagazine.com/2020/10/19/separation-anxiety-a-love-letter-to-deakin/)

In the middle of a once in a lifetime global pandemic, I find myself wondering how history will remember the events of the last ten months. From the first cases of Coronavirus detected to full-scale lockdowns implemented in cities all around the world. I try to imagine myself as an old man, telling someone younger about my lived experience of an event they’ll most likely read about in Wikipedia (or some future analogue).  As my thoughts coalesce, one idea rises to the surface—the notion of separation. This year has been characterised by separations, both personal and professional. But the one I wish to discuss here is perhaps more mundane—separation from Deakin itself.

It’s difficult to believe it’s been six months since I last set foot on the Deakin campus at Burwood as a student. On my last day, after being told that classes were cancelled, I walked to my car and drove off the premises carrying a queasy premonition about the future. I had no idea when I would be returning.

Looking not unlike a miniature city in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne, the Deakin campus is comprised of a discordant mixture of modern architectural shapes, each one unique yet stylistically cohesive. Surrounded by an ample creek (replete with walkers who generously allow me to pet their dogs)—it’s my university.

I never realised what a sizeable portion of my personal identity being a university student constituted. It was how I expended the bulk of my time and symbolised learning and progress. I was a ‘university student’, and proudly announced it to anyone who would listen (and sometimes to those who didn’t!). I relished the day to day routine—driving or catching the tram to campus and diving into the throng of students, all rushing to and from classes, moving like the tiny components of a vast machine. It may sound trite, but I found it exhilarating.

A few semesters ago, when the Gods of scheduling saw fit to give me an 8 am lecture with no other classes till 3 pm, I spent the entire day on campus, availing myself of my friends who weren’t busy or unashamedly napping in our luxuriant library. Sometimes I’d read, or write, or simply perch upon any number of pieces of plush furniture while watching Netflix on my laptop (fully aware that I should be using my free time to study!).

In short, I loved being there. Every moment. I never doubted how fortunate I had been to earn a place there. If our society does contain privileges, then being educated is surely one of them. For me, the old axiom of  ‘not knowing what you have until it’s gone’ was never true. I was determined to be a university student for as long as possible (the life of an academic seems particularly appealing to me).

Fast forward six months, and riding my bike through the empty campus is a surreal experience.  Walkways once bursting with students are now empty, and the entire place is blanketed in eerie silence, punctuated only by the sound of birds. 

Quite different from the emotional fallout of being separated from Deakin are the real-world, economic consequences of the pandemic. Staff cuts and redundancies at Deakin have been openly reported in the media. These job losses represent an incalculable loss of talent and experience—virtues which I, as a student, would have reaped the benefits of. Additionally, I also can’t help but be concerned about the sustainability of the handful of small businesses embedded within the campus, whose steady supply of student customers has been abruptly severed.

Of course, the basic function of Deakin can continue unimpeded in the form of online classes.  While I’m unenthusiastic about online learning, I sometimes chastise myself for taking its existence for granted. It’s a technological innovation that my parents’ generation would never know. But online classes simply aren’t the same. They can’t compare to the kinetic, participatory ritual of sitting in a class with other students, many who have complained about the online resources themselves! While some of these grievances are no doubt valid, I feel they unfairly ignore the truest resource Deakin has to offer its students—its teaching staff.

I can readily attest to being the grateful beneficiary of lecturers and tutors who generously (and willingly) gave their time after class. I’m indebted to the teaching staff who cared enough to help me—the stupidest of students—understand difficult concepts (Mervyn, if you’re reading this, I passed my Statistics exam thanks to your help!).

While I’ve taken lengths to extol the virtues of the Deakin campus itself, I would humbly offer that Deakin is more than a series of buildings—more than an institution. Deakin is the people, students, teachers, and staff from whom this unfortunate circumstance has kept us so painfully apart. I still hold out hope for next year, playfully imagining myself power walking across the crossbridge from the HE building. I’m probably late for class but have still managed to find time to purchase a takeaway coffee.

I miss being at Deakin, and I know I’m not the only one. Surprisingly, as a child who didn’t always enjoy formal education, not a day goes by now when I don’t think to myself, ‘I can’t wait to get back to school.’