Firetale

  Chapter 20: The Magician

  “She calls me Goliath and I wear the David mask.”

  Seven Mary Three, “Cumbersome”

  Ino brought Greg and Lazarus to an abandoned building, almost a twin of the one that housed her bar. Greg was trying to watch the road, but he finally ceased this pursuit and quietly fell asleep to the accompaniment of soft chatter between Lazarus and the witch. When he woke up, Ino’s black pickup was parked near the front porch of an old one-story building somewhere in the backwoods.

  Greg woke up and glanced around, still half asleep. “Where are we? Did we come back?”

  “No, my boy. This is one of my old bars. I left it ten or eleven years ago. Now none of my clients have any memory of it. Only I know how to find it.”

  “What about me and Mr. Bernardius?”

  “You’ve been sleeping the whole way, and Lazarus was not watching the road.” Ino winked playfully at the ringmaster. He had stopped blushing at the witch’s every word, and he gave her a faint smile under his mustache. “Besides, I know how to trip up my fellow travelers.”

  Greg gazed at the house. It was old, but looked quite strong and surprisingly tidy, as if a crew of janitor bikers had cleaned it every couple of weeks.

  “Do not forget that I’m a witch, boys,” Ino said, noting the amazement of both men. “I know how to scare away rodents and insects from a house. You will only have to dust, Greg.”

  “Nice. But no cable TV, eh?”

  “You’d think Lazarus’s big top was the Waldorf-Astoria,” the witch answered with a mock sigh.

  “Fair enough,” agreed Greg. “Well, maybe someone grabbed a stack of comics at least, no?” A pregnant silence was his answer.

  “If you want something to do to kill time, you can chop wood for the fireplace. The generator wasn’t enough for heating even ten years ago,” advised Ino.

  “How long will I be here?” Judging by his voice, Greg had already realized the gloomy prospect of his upcoming habitation in a remote cabin in the woods.

  “Until everything blows over and the Judge is no longer interested in you,” Mr. Bernardius said, his voice dark and brooding.

  “There are a few bottles of the potion that hides you from the Judges in the pickup truck,” Ino said. “It should be sufficient for a couple of weeks. Take one bottle a day at the same time. Then I’ll come around. To replenish your stocks or take you away. We’ll see.”

  “Back to the circus?” Greg wanted to sound confident, but he could not hide the doubt in his voice.

  Mr. Bernardius gave a heavy sigh. “Greg, you have brought trouble on the circus. Your presence would be dangerous for the rest …”

  Ino interrupted just as Greg was about to do the same. “I think you still have to meet again, boys. You’ll decide then. In the meantime, let’s not waste time. Greg, take provisions from the truck. No delicacies there, but you won’t die of hunger.”

  The magician unloaded the car, and Lazarus and Ino quickly said goodbye and got back into the pickup. Greg turned and went to inspect his temporary shelter.

  Bernardius looked depressed, and when they got onto the highway, Ino asked him what the matter was.

  “I’m worried about Greg,” Lazarus admitted.

  “He’s a good guy, and if he doesn’t do anything stupid, no one will find him here. I barely remembered how to get here.” Ino exuded confidence, but it was not enough for Lazarus.

  “That’s the thing. He relies too much on his magic. He is too attached to it, and if he decides to use it while we are not looking, the Judge may find him.”

  Ino waved aside the ringmaster’s doubts. “Oh, honey, that’s not going to happen.”

  Lazarus snorted. “You don’t know Greg, Ino.”

  “But I know myself and what I can do. The potions I gave you and Greg are a bit different from one another.”

  “Different? What do you mean? They react differently?”

  “They are the same. But the potion Greg drank has a small additional effect. It not only hides the traces of magic from Judges but also prevents mongrels from using their magical abilities. Not forever, only as long as the potion works.”

  The ringmaster almost jumped in the passenger seat. “Greg will not be able to use his magic?”

  “That’s what I said, my dear. You understand correctly.”

  “Why did you not tell him?”

  “You said yourself that he is too attached to his magic. I don’t think he would have voluntarily agreed to such a thing. I’m telling you now because we are far enough from the cabin that you won’t be tempted to go back and tell him. Do not worry. I will visit him in a few weeks. Everything will be fine.”

  Everything was going well.

  There were no surprises. Greg’s days were tiring in their lonely monotony. Dusting took a few hours. On the second day, out of excessive zeal, Greg chopped enough wood for a couple of weeks. The days that followed consisted of cooking canned food, walking in the woods, and thinking about Martha. He recalled their conversations, their sex, their shows. He had watched with admiration how easily she performed all her stunts, remembered her breath on his shoulder when they fell asleep. At first, the memories brought comfort, but the dark forest and empty house reminded Greg that he had been deprived of Martha’s companionship for days, and might be for weeks or months longer, which made him unbearably sad. Sometimes his longing became physically tangible. Greg felt it somewhere in his chest, and then a devastating wave moved from it in all directions, reaching and sticking in his throat, arms, and legs. He wanted to escape from it. He wanted to break all the taboos, and go to Martha. But the wave was unnerving, making his arms and legs weak, and he was unable move. Greg reminded himself that he could not endanger Martha by appearing in the circus, and he became reconciled to his existence.

  Eventually Greg began to feel as if he had disappeared into the quiet forest, into its leaves, roots, and branches, its majestic and deceptive silence. At the end of one day, the sound of a sapling cracking snatched the magician from his heavy thoughts. The cracking sound was followed by another and then another and was getting closer and louder. He didn’t think it was Ino, could not imagine that she had taken a wrong turn in the twilight and was now blasting through trees in her pickup. The long days in the hut in the forest had merged into one for Greg, but he knew that the witch would not return soon. And it was unlikely a lumberjack crew, drunk and lost. No lumberman could cut down trees this fast.

  Wasting no time, Greg jumped up from his chair and ran out onto the porch. Twilight was rapidly turning into darkness. Greg stared, trying to determine the source of the noise, but he saw only trees standing close to each other. The mage circled the house, going toward the sound that was still becoming louder. Now he could hear not only cracking, but also … what? Groaning, sighing, sniffing, a quiet growl? Whatever was headed to the house and Greg, it was clearly alive. Realizing this, the magician became confused. What creature could sigh so noisily and fell trees with such speed?

  Greg looked up to the tops of the trees and noticed that some of them shook from side to side, as if hit by a storm coming from several directions. Except that the weather was calm, and there was no wind. Whatever “storm” was approaching, it was accompanied by sighs instead of howling winds. Greg had never considered that sighs could be furious, but that’s what he was hearing. Whatever was approaching the house, it did not scare Greg. He was sure of his magic and would not run.

  A tree was falling where the backyard met the forest, pushing aside branches and the trunks of neighboring trees. Greg thought it was going to land directly on him. He jumped back, but the tree stood up, its trunk once again straight. And then Greg heard a furious breath. The tree had taken a step forward, into the backyard of the cabin.

  What Greg had taken for a tree wasn’t a tree. It was a woodwose. The mage had never seen one, but he’d heard about them from Pietro. The creature in front of the magician stood the height of two humans, and, at s
uch a distance or in the dark, it could be mistaken for a tree. Lumps grew from the woodwose’s back and shoulders like branches, gnarled and covered with leaves and moss, forming something of a crown. The monster’s head and torso were covered with thick matted hair, in which twigs, dead leaves, dirt, and animal excrement were stuck. Its arms and legs resembled old tree branches, and its skin was thick, cracked, and covered with growths, making it almost indistinguishable from tree bark. The creature had a face like a human but it was almost completely hidden by tufts of brown fur falling down over it. Only its round eyes, of a blazing red color, were clearly visible. Suddenly the wool under its eyes moved up and down, revealing a dark dip under it. A sigh came from it. This time it was full of rage and triumph.

  The huge creature threw one of his long arms at Greg, but its size made the woodwose slow, and the mage easily dodged the blow, leaping to the side and rolling over. The woodwose released a long, irritated sigh and began to turn his whole body to the magician to strike another blow. Greg scrambled back up. He was ready to prepare his attack. He called the inner fire … and felt nothing. There was no response, no spark. The flame did not come out of his fingers, his hands did not turn into flaming whips. Greg just stood there, his hands outstretched ridiculously, fingers spread, like a LARP player pretending to be a wizard. He was shocked. It was like waking up in the morning and discovering that you have no arms or legs. The magician couldn’t believe that the fire refused to obey him. He tried again, and again, but the magic did not answer him. Stunned, he looked at his hands. And missed the jab.

  As Greg tried and failed to summon his magic, the monster had enough time to turn around and attack again. The magician was lucky the woodwose couldn’t calculate the distance to the target, and the blow was glancing. The monster’s long, branchlike fingers barely reached the magician, but it was enough to knock him down. The monster’s fingers ripped Greg’s shirt, slightly scraping his skin, but falling to the ground knocked the air out of the fire mage’s chest. White flashes clouded the magician’s eyes, and his lungs seemed to have decreased in size, like a balloon pierced with needle. To the woodwose, the small man lying on his back, gasping for breath, looked like a cockroach that couldn’t roll over onto his stomach and escape. The monster raised its hands and struck downwards, wanting either to flay Greg or nail him to the ground with its long, sharp fingers.

  The mage rolled, and the woodwose’s branches sank a few inches into the ground, just missing the fire mage. The monster again let out a furious sigh and pulled its hands out of the ground. Greg jumped up and ran around the house to the porch. The woodwose was much slower, but it took a long step and waved its hand, aiming at the feet of the running man. The blow struck Greg’s running legs, and he fell headfirst. The impact made him woozy, but the magician told himself to stand up and continue to run. Behind him, the woodwose let out a triumphant sigh.

  Greg again tried to call the inner fire, but there was only silence inside. It was like pounding a wall where none had existed before. But he wasn’t going to stop pounding. The more hits to the wall, he encouraged himself, the faster it would fall. Meanwhile, the monster chasing Greg changed its tactics. It picked up a stone the size of an adult human head and threw it at Greg. A sharp pain shot through Greg’s left thigh. He thought he heard a crack, and the next moment his left leg buckled under him, and he fell again. He tried to get up, but he couldn’t move his left leg. He could no longer run or walk. He could only crawl.

  Greg spotted the ax he used for chopping wood a few yards away, lying on the ground. It was a pitiful weapon, but at least something. Crawling on his elbows and pushing with his right foot, Greg crawled to it. The monster picked up handfuls of earth and threw them at Greg. Most of the stones and branches were too small to cause serious pain, but when a pointed branch stuck into his left thigh, Greg’s whole body started shaking. Finally, his fingers closed around the handle of the ax. Only then did the magician realize how pathetic his weapon was. It would be foolhardy to fight such a big monster with this small ax. The woodwose was approaching. Trusting in luck, Greg threw the ax, aiming for the creature’s gleaming red eyes.

  At first, the magician did not understand what had happened. For the first time, the woodwose let out something other than a sigh. It was a hoarse howl, full of pain. The ax had stuck in the body of the monster somewhere between its mouth and shoulder. The creature thrashed, trying to get at the ax. But his clawed fingers became tangled in its wool, and its hands were too big and clumsy to grab the handle. The woodwose stamped and shook its head, trying to shake off the ax like an annoying rodent. It was Greg’s best chance. Fire could still save him, even if it wouldn’t be in the way he had thought. Greg crawled to the house.

  It was difficult to climb the stairs. His left foot was unbendable, and it knocked against every step, causing so much pain that Greg almost passed out. He dripped with sweat, and when it got into his eyes, they burned. When he reached the open door, he turned. The woodwose stopped trying to get the ax. The monster bent down, lowered his head, and charged like a bull.

  The blow hit Greg in the back and literally threw him into the house through the door. The magician landed in front of the fireplace in a cloud of moss, leaves, and small slivers of wood. The woodwose smashed at the doorway but could get no further. His body was in the house only to its shoulders, and he was stuck. The creature fought furiously, trying to get free. One hand remained almost entirely outside, obstructed by part of the wall, the second was inside the house. The woodwose was furiously waving it, trying to get to Greg. His claws scraped the floor, leaving deep marks in it, but they were a few feet away from the magician.

  Next to the fireplace lay chips for kindling. Greg put them into the flames, and when they caught fire, he threw them at the woodwose with his bare hands. The inner fire did not answer him, but open flames still did not cause him harm. Seeing the fire so close, the monster stopped trying to get to the magician. With his free hand, he started pushing the wall that pressed him down, reaching outside. The less this monster was interested in Greg, the closer to the woodwose the fire mage could get. Flaming chips fell around the monster. Some of them got on his dirty, matted fur.

  The woodwose’s hand stopped trying to push the wall. Instead, the creature attempted to beat the fire out, but flames engulfed its barklike skin almost instantly, and the monster’s hectic moves only made it flare brighter. Within moments, the woodwose’s body had turned into a huge living fire. The monster fought and wept but could not free itself from the doorway. Fire spread to the walls and furniture. Half of the house was overtaken by flames. The deed was done. The woodwose was trapped. But there was no time for Greg to enjoy his triumph. Fire and heat would not cause him any harm, but the smoke made it hard to breathe, and the magician hurried to get out.

  He crawled to the window on the far wall. He put one hand on the windowsill, used his other hand to open the window, and climbed out. Halfway out, Greg got stuck. He glanced over his shoulder and saw one of the branches from the “crown” of the monster sticking out of his back and coming up against the wall above the window. Gathering his strength, he broke the branch off, threw it aside, and rolled through the window. The landing was hard. His leg and back responded in pain.

  Greg crawled away from the house, every movement causing excruciating pain, making it harder and harder to get away from the burning house. He felt coldness flowing throughout his body from the wound in his back.

  The house was in flames. The sighs of the woodwose turned into screams, and then the monster fell silent forever. Wooden walls cracked and collapsed, and sparks flew all around. Fire devoured the remnants of Ino’s former bar. The fire burned brightly, but it could not warm up Greg. The mage stopped crawling. His strength left him, and the inner fire still did not answer. For a moment he thought about returning to the burning house, hoping that the fire would give him strength, but he could not move.

  He no longer felt pain, only anger and resentment. But
he did not want to die like this, in bitterness and regret. So he thought about Martha. It is a pity that she’s not here, Greg thought. It would be easier.

  He remembered her smile and closed his eyes.

  Bad Seed

  Record made on 07/19/1996

  Archivist: Enzo

  I’m not the first archivist of our circus, and, I feel, I’ll soon be replaced by someone younger. Only Mr. Bernardius is irreplaceable and eternal. I’ve read in the archives and saw for myself how the ringmaster had to make difficult decisions, which is why the circus has been operating for so long. He is smart and knows how to handle matters. But sometimes I still doubt if he has the stiffness of a true leader. Consider his rule that every conscious demionis has the right to decide whether it wants to stay in the circus or not. For my taste, everyone who gets in the circus should remain here until the last breath. But Mr. Bernardius believes that would be no different from prison. I don’t know why he insists on it, but I wonder if, perhaps, he once had to do something against his will, and now he thinks that everyone should have a choice.

  However, each decision has its consequences.

  Someone named Klaus once performed in our circus. He was no intellectual giant, but he had his virtues: honesty, friendliness, a winning simplicity of character. Klaus was an unusual demionis, one of those who, like Mr. Bernardius, did not fit into a certain type. As he aged, Klaus’s skin turned into metal, impossible for a bullet or a knife to break through. He was tall, almost seven feet, broad-shouldered, and incredibly strong. His steel skin and his size gave him a menacing look, but as I said, he was a nice guy. Klaus loved children. They were constantly calling him names of comic book characters—The Man of Steel, Iron Man, Colossus. So we began to write on our posters: “Today in the arena – the true Man of Steel!”

  Klaus performed feats of strength. He could bend a length of scrap-iron or lift over his head a platform with fifteen to twenty children standing on it, all squealing with delight. But his most popular trick was called “Bullet in the Heart.” Klaus performed it with Mr. Bernardius. The ringmaster entered the arena, loaded a Colt 1851 Navy Model, and shot it from thirty feet into a barrel of water, which had previously been examined by a volunteer from the audience. When the bullet pierced the barrel and the public was convinced that the gun was real and loaded with no blanks, Klaus stepped in. The giant bared his steel chest, put his arms out to the side, and Lazarus pulled the trigger. Ringing from the impact of metal on metal resounded, and Klaus ripped a flattened bullet from his chest. The demionis proudly showed it, and then threw it into the auditorium, like a baseball player throwing a ball into the stands.

  I think Klaus was one of the few demionis who really enjoyed performing. He liked to be the center of attention, to be some kind of star. If some kids wanted to play with the man of steel after shows, and they always did, he never refused. In general, Klaus liked living in the circus. Until Melissa appeared.

  Right off, I didn’t like her. It is said that it is impossible to judge a person by their face. But in my lifetime I’ve seen so many faces of people and demionis that I’m rarely wrong. Melissa was pretty. But her beauty was of the unkind sort. With such a face, she could have played a villainous empress in some fantasy movie for teenagers. She had long, thick black hair, big dark eyes expressing only contempt, and high cheekbones. I could never tell how old Melissa was. Sometimes it seemed to me that she was twenty-five, other times slightly over forty. In any case, she always tried to look younger and strongly emphasized the “values” of her body. This woman always had a cigarette. She tried smoking as Marlene Dietrich, but it didn’t work. I think any men who had some experience with women instantly saw through Melissa and tried to stay away from her, but among the circus inhabitants, women have always been in the minority. And Klaus lost his head.

  He accidentally met Melissa at one of the shows, and he spent that night outside the circus. The next morning he returned, woozy and happy, and we moved to the next town. We didn’t know that Melissa had followed us. To Mr. Bernardius’s dismay, the woman became a regular at our shows. At first, she tried to go backstage, claiming that her boyfriend lived in the circus, and she had a right to visit him. When we politely refused her, she tried to put pressure on Klaus, who attempted to bring her into his trailer by force. But Blanche and Black quickly brought the giant to reason. Even the invulnerable Klaus couldn’t manage two ogre brothers. Unable to enter the circus, Melissa decided to lure Klaus out. The giant started to spend his nights not in the trailer, but in cheap motels, where his sweetheart stayed, traveling behind us. Of course, this couldn’t last long. After a time, Klaus came to Mr. Bernardius, and, stuttering with excitement, asked the ringmaster to give him money for his performances. Klaus needed it to get out of the circus.

  All Lazarus’s attempts to reason with Klaus failed. The giant kept saying that he was an independent man and that there were things in his life more important than the circus. Eventually, Mr. Bernardius relented and gave Klaus money. For the first time, I saw the tentmaster give one of his black candles to a demionis. With this candle Klaus could find his way back to the circus after he finished his business in the human world. It was a risky move. If the candle got in wrong hands—for example, a Judge’s—it all could have ended badly.

  So Klaus became the first demionis for whom the circus was not a home but a workplace, where he returned when he found himself low on funds. At first he was embarrassed to ask for money, but then he did it with confidence, sometimes even showing dissatisfaction if, in his opinion, Mr. Bernardius did not pay enough. Klaus always showed up on a huge black motorcycle. He said that he had always dreamed of owning one, and his outfit—leather jacket, gloves, and helmet—hid his appearance in the human world. Klaus tried to look like a confident man who controls his life, but the change in him was obvious. He became nervous and abrupt, and sometimes he smelled of alcohol, though the former Klaus, as we knew, had never touched the bottle. The steel giant always came to the circus with Melissa. Each time we saw her, she was wearing more expensive and tawdry dresses and jewels. Mr. Bernardius and I agreed that Melissa could not afford such spectacular outfits, nor Klaus his motorcycle, with the money he received for performing in the circus.

  We finally learned how Klaus made his living away from the arena when the police arrived for the first time. They accused him of robbing a bank, read him his rights, and handcuffed him. To everyone’s surprise, Klaus did not resist the cops and just smiled. Later, he explained to us that he did not want to make a scene and alarm the audience. He said no handcuffs could restrain him. His strength allowed him to break them like a thread at any time, and he could push aside the bars of a cell and leave whenever he wanted. He wasn’t afraid of police batons and bullets. Of course, we explained to him that his actions violated the Pactum, and sooner or later he would have to pay for it. But he justified himself by saying that no one had ever been killed or even injured during his robberies or shootouts, just knocked out. Mr. Bernardius threatened to take away his candle so that he could never go back to the circus. However, these threats were empty. Out of pity, the ringmaster let the “Man of Steel” back into the circus again and again. Klaus’s visits were infrequent but regular. And then they abruptly stopped.

  Seven months after our last meeting with Klaus, Melissa came to the circus. She looked as beguiling as ever, only more tired, and her thick head of hair was shot with gray. She said that Klaus could not come and refused to tell us when we would see him again. It seemed to me that she had been ready to tell us more, but abandoned the idea. Instead, she handed me a black candle and gave Mr. Bernardius a hefty package. Not waiting for him to unwrap it, she got into her used silver Mercedes and left.

  In the package lay a demionis, a baby. It was a strange creature. It was not like Klaus or Melissa. It was proof of what unpredictable forms devilish blood can take. The child’s body was covered with rare wiry fur, all four fingers of its hands ended in soft claws, and its round mou
th was paved with small teeth in several rows. The baby was very weak, and despite all my efforts, it survived less than a week. We never heard from Klaus again.

  A couple of years later, I read in one of the newspapers that a bank robber had been shot by police during a raid on a bank. The news article mentioned a 43-year-old woman, identified with the letter M. The woman’s mug shot remotely resembled Melissa, although without makeup it was difficult to judge for sure. Upon reflection, I decided not to tell Mr. Bernardius about the article.