Marcus Pender had no idea why he had been chosen to interview the last remaining Elf. He was only a journalist for a fading local newspaper, and his biggest scoop had been about a minor budget error mishandled by the district school board. It turned out to be honest incompetence, and the perpetrators had suffered no consequences at the ballot box.

Marcus had no bylines in prestige publications. No big following on social media. He was sure his inconsistent blog, begun in college with enthusiasm and abandoned at least a dozen times over the last decade, had exactly one reader – his mom. He had settled into his life of mediocrity, the malaise that brings a form of unearned contentment before the panic of a midlife crisis.

Yet here he was, climbing the perfectly cut stone steps toward the dwelling of the greatest celebrity on the planet. Even after all of the weird occurrences, he still thought everything would be revealed as an elaborate prank as soon as he arrived at the cabin.

Trees crowded the edges of the path but left the way suspiciously clear of all debris. Every sway of the branches overhead sprayed a new pattern of sunlight onto the ornate patterns of the steps. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. Marcus had already stopped twice to catch his breath.

He stopped again when he came to a stone arch with words carved along the top, but he had no idea what they said. He couldn’t read Elvish. Another mark against him. When he passed through it, the skin on his face tightened like over-stretched plastic wrap, then relaxed. His hands patted the rest of his body to make sure it was still present and intact before he traversed the final dozen or so steps.

The cabin appeared plain and normal. It was like any other cabin you might see when planning a vacation to the Smoky Mountains. But as he reached up to knock on the door, he noticed the wood had no hard edges, no cuts. It was like the whole thing had been grown, not built. As he contemplated the wooden door knob with his closed fist raised in the air, the door swung open on wooden hinges.

“Good of you to come, Marcus,” said a deep voice with the ring of youth but the confidence and practice of old age. Very, very old age. The darkened shape moved away. “Do come in.”

Marcus hadn’t expected to be on a first-name basis with someone he had never met, but the familiarity felt natural. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and stepped across the threshold.

The air immediately felt cooler and as fresh as a young spring morning right after a gentle rain. His sweat was gone. Sunlight poured into the room from a few windows but suffused the entire space as if the very air sucked it up like a sponge and glowed. No corner was dark and there were no obvious shadows. Marcus could see no other light source. Other than that, the inside of the cabin was boringly normal. A table against the wall, a couch and a few chairs. And was that a Thomas Kincaid painting on the wall?

A low laugh came from the kitchen area. “It is a bit gauche, I admit,” the deep voice said, “but I have a certain fondness for his earnestness.” The last elf walked over with two mugs of something steaming. He was tall, but not so tall as to force Marcus to tilt his head back too much. White hair framed perfect, unblemished skin and eyes as blue as the horizon just above a calm sea. “Kincaid attempted to capture the lighting of our earthly abodes with such enthusiasm. He failed, of course. But do you not hang finger paintings of children on your own walls and appliances? I have seen such things.”

“I suppose,” Marcus mumbled. “Just a little surprised you have something in common with my mother.”

The elf laughed again. “The first surprise of many, I expect. Please sit.”

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They both settled down in chairs and the elf put the mugs down on the small table between them. Marcus sat with back straight, his body refusing to be comfortable. He was an imposter in this place, and his bones knew it. And it wasn’t just that Marcus was a nobody, a mere staff reporter. As far as he knew, no human had set foot anywhere close to this cabin in over fifty years. The coziness and apparent normalness of the room felt only surface deep.

“You are wondering why I chose you,” the elf said, reading part of his thoughts.

“Well…yeah.”

“Perhaps we will get to that. For now, please drink. It will calm your nerves, among other things.”

Marcus hadn’t picked up his mug for fear of his hands trembling. How could he refuse now? The drink, of course, was delicious. A menagerie of floral notes carried on a bed of rich honey. The liquid seemed to spread out from his stomach all the way to his toenails, and Marcus braced himself for the heady feeling one gets after a few shots of good whiskey, but it never came. When he set the cup back down, he was surprised to find it mostly empty.

Marcus cleared his throat. “So, umm…should I call you Mr. Shoemaker?”

The elf smiled. “If you wish. Though you may also use my real name. Druindar.”

Marcus paused while pulling out his notebook and blinked a few times at the ageless face. No elf in known history was ever known by his or her real name. They had always, at their insistence, been referred to by pseudonyms taken from the jobs elves performed in human myths and fairy tales. Shoemaker. Toymaker. Ringsmith. Treekeeper.

“And I….I can use it…” Marcus licked his lips. “I can use this name in the publication? Mr….” He worked his mouth open and closed a few times like a goldfish. “Mr. Druindar?”

“Just Druindar,” said the elf. “It is a first name. We had no need for additional distinctives.”

“Ok then. Druindar.” The word felt wrong in Marcus’s mouth, like his tongue was too thick to properly pronounce it. “Why share it now?”

“Names are powerful, and those with nefarious purposes could have used an elven name to do great evil. By the time your article goes to print, however, it will no longer matter. I will be dead.”

“You’re dying?!” Marcus spat the words out like too-hot soup.

“No. From the day of his Becoming, every elf knows the day and hour of his death. That is the first truth you should know about us.”

Marcus stared unmoving at the blue eyes as he attempted to get the words to settle into his mind. He wasn’t sure how long he stared, but he jerked in surprise when he realized it and his pen clattered to the floor. No doubt this would be the first of many revelatory moments that left him gaping, open-mouthed, so maybe pen and paper wouldn’t suffice. He reached toward his bag again. “Mind if I record this?”

“Not at all. Though there is no need. The tea you drank will maintain your memories of our conversation until you write them down.”

Marcus sat up straight again and glanced at the almost empty mug. Half joking, he asked, “Could I get that recipe?”

Druindar chuckled politely. “There are many things I wish to share, but that is not one of them. And even if you could understand it, you would not have the craft required.”

“Of course.” People had been trying to crack the secrets of Elven “magic” for centuries. Men much smarter than Marcus had made about as much progress as a turtle on a treadmill. He straightened his back again and tried to inject his voice with the gravitas the moment required. “How do you feel about your approaching death?”

“How I feel is not relevant. It simply is. We all knew we would taste of the curse before we were gathered to our people once again.”

“So you have no remorse? No regrets?”

“No more than you would have passing another landmark to your destination.”

Marcus leaned forward. “There is something after death?”

“Of course. None of us would have agreed to this mission if we were facing the Void.”

“Are you talking about Heaven?”

“There is more than one, but yes. Though it is far different from human imaginings.”

“And you know for sure that’s where you’re going?”

Druindar lifted an eyebrow and gave Marcus a long stare, with eyes that appeared old enough to have witnessed the birth of every star in the night sky. “Even after thousands of years, I will never cease to be amazed by you humans. And exasperated. All of the wonders you have seen, and you still won’t take me at my word?”

“It’s been a long time since there were any wonders done by your kind. Not in my lifetime.”

“That you know of.”

Marcus mulled on that for a brief moment. If the elves were still performing magic, that would be more big news to come out of this interview. He sat back. “Even so, I haven’t personally seen anything.”

“But you have seen the proof. Read the stories. Your entire history is predicated on certain truths of what my kind have done.”

“Stories can be embellished.”

Druindar laughed a deep laugh that filled the room like music. “‘Oh ye of little faith’ really is a descriptor of your entire race.”

“It’s not foolish to require evidence,” Marcus said, though he hated how petulant he sounded.

“I did not say it was,” Druindar said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “But your standard of evidence is absurd, a truth my kindred and I have stated over and over again, in many different ways, for hundreds of years of your recorded history and thousands of years before that. You claim to have never seen magic when you just drank a tea with effects that defy all of your naturalistic categories. Though no doubt you are thinking there must be some normal, mundane scientific explanation for it.”

Marcus bit the inside of his cheek. Yes, he had been thinking that in the back of his mind, even while remembering that the smartest people on earth had tried and failed. Over and over.

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Druindar continued. “Look around you and see with new eyes, and you will perceive that you see magic every day. Everything is magic.”

“Isn’t that like saying everything is a miracle? If that’s true, then nothing is.”

“Not at all. Just because something is common and repeatable and you can dissect it and label its parts and name it does not mean it is not magic. If I had said my intelligence would be instantly uploaded to a distant server on another planet after my death, where I would continue to live in a different type of body, you would have no trouble accepting what I said as truth. Such a process sounds like technology, which is something your race believes it understands and controls.”

Marcus sat there, wanting to come up with some snappy answer on behalf of all mankind. He didn’t know why. Even though Druindar was thousands of years old, Marcus still didn’t appreciate being lectured like a child.

The elf held up a conciliatory hand. “It is not wrong for you to seek to understand and name things. That is the prerogative of all descendants of Adam. But along with his birthright, you also inherited his hubris. Someday, the latter will be gone, and you will have true understanding.”

Marcus sighed and picked his mug back up before remembering it was still almost empty. He tightened his grip on the handle and decided to change the subject. “So the rest of your people. They really did die? They didn’t just leave or go into deeper seclusion?”

“Indeed,” Druindar said, and turned to look out the window. “Once I am gone, your race will be alone for the first time.” A small bird of some kind alighted on the sill and chirped, and the elf smiled. “Well, alone of the ensouled to walk this sphere.”

Marcus had about fifty different threads he could pluck at, his head swimming with the possibilities. It seemed that Druindar was verifying the existence of a soul. The revelation that the rest of the elves really were gone would send shockwaves across the world. And what about the Void and the mission? Marcus bounced his gaze from the bird to Druindar and picked a path before the silence grew too awkward.

“It sounds like you’ve been on our planet for far longer than you’ve let on. From past statements, at least.”

“We have never spoken a lie. We have left certain truths unsaid or let you stew in your own deceptions, but no lie has left our lips.”

“That’s a bold statement, considering your lifespan. And you’re speaking for eleven others.”

“Do you doubt my word?” For the first time, Druindar’s voice had an edge. “I thought we had already covered this ground. Perhaps this interview is pointless. Perhaps I invited the wrong person.”

“No.” Marcus spit the word out as fast as he could. “No. Just…hard for me to believe. It’ll be hard for readers to believe it, too.”

“I very much doubt that. Your kind have believed far stranger things about us.”

Marcus nodded to grant him the point and took a slow, deep breath to calm his nerves “So we have never been alone. Does that mean you have been here since…” He had almost ended with since humans evolved from apes or since the first cells had crawled out of the primordial ooze. But he remembered all elves were creationists of a sort and took such statements as insults, so he kept it vague. “You’ve been here since…the beginning?”

“Since the Fall. We are servants of the Dancing Fire.”

Marcus remembered from Sunday school something about a sword of fire placed at the entrance to the Garden of Eden. Was it related? “This is the mission you mentioned before? The reason you came to earth?”

“Indeed. We are boundary wardens.”

“What boundaries?”

“Between the spheres. Between realms.”

“Do you mean planets?”

“Yes, but not limited to them.”

“So there is other life?”

Druindar spread his hands as if presenting himself and smiled. “Did you not already know this?”

“I mean other lifeforms besides you. Besides what is on this planet. Aliens.”

“Yes, but again, not as you imagine.”

“And you…protect us from these lifeforms?”

“Some. But most of them, we protect from you.”

Marcus took a moment to process this. He had to clear his throat a few times before he was able to speak again. “You’re telling me Earth is a prison?”

“More like a quarantine zone.”

“We’re contagious?”

“Greed. Covetousness. Idolatry. We have already spoken of your hubris. Must I explain sin to you, Marcus? You have seen what humans do to each other. That level of corruption would ravage the cosmos.”

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Marcus sat straight up in the chair, looking at Druindar in a new light. At all of the elves in a new light. Common wisdom for centuries had treated them as benefactors, but had they really been prison guards? His exposé would shatter all known history. All would be dissected and reevaluated.

The beginnings of his first article swirled in his head, along with something else.

Offense.

Offense on behalf of the whole human race.

“You are thinking,” Druindar said, “of your coming fame as soon as you publish these revelations.”

Marcus tried to spin some indignation into his voice. “You’ve been treating us like children for thousands of years.”

“Because you still are. You had no issue accepting the benefits of our stewardship before, but now that you know you have no exclusive claim on our concerns for your welfare, you begin to act petulant.”

“All under false pretense!”

Druindar spread his hands again. “As I have said, we have never lied to you. It is not our fault that you always ask the wrong questions. And still, you fail to pull on the obvious thread.”

A dreadful thought popped into Marcus’s mind. “Have you sabotaged us? Our efforts to reach the stars? Improvements in technology?”

“That is the wrong thread. But since you asked, yes. Nothing too drastic, but enough to confound and dull the sharpest of your minds. A note misplaced. A name forgotten. A lens smudged at the right moment.”

Marcus stood up, his notepad falling to the floor. “You had no right.”

“It was part of our sacred duty, given to us by one whose authority is supreme. We had every right.”

Marcus looked around the room, searching for anything toward which he could direct his anger besides the infuriatingly calm face of the elf. Some picture. Some flaw. Some sign of opulence or pride he could focus on to drop the elves down a level in his own mind, some hint that they had acted above their station.

There was nothing. While everything was clean, neat, and perfectly crafted, it was mostly wood and had the air of humility and restraint. He settled for crossing his arms and clenching his fists as hard as he could.

“Would you like some more tea, Marcus? I have a different brew that will…”

“I don’t want tea!” Marcus paced a few times before stopping and grabbing the back of his chair. “This will ruin your reputation.”

“I care not. I will soon be gone, after all.”

“You said death is not the end. You won’t peek in from time to time? To see how the entire human race now hates you?”

Druindar offered a soft smile. “That avenue will be closed to me. Even if I could, I will be far too busy with a new work. Why would I put my hand back to the plow, so to speak?”

Marcus crossed his arms again. “And the rest of your kind? They left as heroes. You’re turning them into villains.”

“I look forward to reuniting with them again and telling them all that has transpired since their passing. Do sit down, Marcus. We must still get to the main point of this interview.”

“No thanks.”

“As you will,” Druindar said, tipping his head forward. “But in your indignation, you have jumped over the stream you should have stopped to inspect.”

Marcus almost said, “I don’t care,” but even in the single-mindedness of his anger, he knew it would sound childish. And it would only serve as another data point to solidify the elf’s justification in treating humanity like children. He took a deep breath and glanced out the window. The bird had flown away.

“Your work as boundary wardens isn’t all about holding us back.” Marcus swirled some poison into the last words to make it clear he was still angry. “You said ‘some.’ You protect us from something.”

Druindar tilted his head down in acknowledgement. “Indeed.”

“Hostile aliens?”

“Of a kind. The word that would describe them most accurately would be ‘demons.’”

Now Marcus felt like sitting down. Still, he refused. “What type of demons? Intradimensional? Cthulu? Lovecraftian stuff?”

Druindar chuckled. “They wish they were so grand and powerful. No. But in many ways, they are much worse.”

“So not only have you kept us in the dark, handicapped us, but you’re now going to leave us defenseless against these things?”

“Our work has been minimal since the Ascension. The way has been shut. The door sealed. The demons are locked away in dark, watery places until the consummation of all things.”

Marcus closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and finger. This was getting weird way too quickly. The pages he colored growing up in Sunday school had not given him the vocabulary to sort through all the claims slapping him across the head. The elves had never been shy about their beliefs when asked, but Marcus, and a large portion of the rest of the world, had shrugged it off as an eccentricity. Like Einstein’s hair or Tom Cruise’s Scientology. To hear the certainty out of Druindar’s own lips, however, was something else entirely.

“Jesus,” Marcus mumbled under his breath.

“Precisely,” Druindar said.

Marcus opened his eyes and cleared his throat, embarrassed. “So what’s the problem? It sounds like everything’s fine.”

“On their side of the door, the way is locked. They may still be invited in by the descendants of Adam and, despite our warnings, many do offer such invitations.”

“Who would invite a demon?”

Druindar gave Marcus a look of incredulity. “Anyone craving power or wealth or knowledge. My kind have been offered bribes for such things, and when we refuse, the supplicants turn to other sources. Many are unaware they are summoning demons through their efforts, though the danger is still the same no matter their intentions.”

“It can be accidental?”

“Their actions are never accidental, but they are often misinformed.”

Marcus finally sat down again, but remained tense with his hands on his knees. “And when you’re gone, things will get worse?”

“Possibly. Whether that happens or not depends on you, Marcus Arindar Pendragon.”

Marcus blinked. “What?”

“We come to the real point of this interview. You were wondering why I chose a beat reporter who is unknown to all but his immediate family to get the scoop of the century. You know enough to make your choice, I think.”

The words bounced off Marcus’s forehead with all the effect of a ping-pong ball on the Great Wall of China. The names Druindar had used still filled his head and ears, tugging something out of his chest that had long lain dormant. “What did you call me?”

“The names of some of your ancestors. You come from noble stock. We have kept track since Merlin was put to rest.”

“Merlin.” Marcus was glad he was already sitting down. “Like the wizard. From King Arthur.” His head now felt like a balloon wobbling in the wind.

“Not exactly like that, but your myths are close enough for our present conversation.”

Marcus didn’t even know what the present conversation was about. “Merlin was real?”

Druindar smiled. “And a good friend, but that is not relevant. When I am gone, someone must continue our work, and it is time for humanity to assume that mantle. Or at least, a single human. You, to be exact.”

“Woah.” Marcus held a hand up. “Woah.” He almost said “woah” a third time, but clamped his mouth shut before it spilled out. He swallowed, and it was like forcing a baseball down his throat. “Can we slow down a bit?”

“Of course.”

“You want me to fight demons?”

“With your powers, it won’t be much of a fight. I want you to banish demons and possibly save souls in the process. You have the opportunity to do much good, Marcus. Far beyond the bounds of your current occupation.”

“I don’t even know if I believe in demons.”

“That matters not. They are real, whether you believe in them or not. But since my word is not enough…” Druindar stood and held out a cupped hand. “Let your eyes be opened, Marcus Pendragon.”

Marcus opened his mouth to object again.

He screamed instead.

He had been sitting in a comfy chair, in a comfy cabin, and now everything around him pulsed and swirled. Energy flowed through the wood and the floor and the woods outside burned with an emerald glow that dug deep into the earth. In the sky above, for he saw through the roof as if it were the clearest glass, there were wings of fire and chariots of flame that rivaled the shining sun in their intensity.

Closing his eyes did nothing. The visual barrage continued as if his eyelids had been burned away. There was no escape. Drowning in colors and light. His fingers clenched the arms of the chair until they ached, but he dared not loosen his grip lest he be lost forever in the storm raging around him. He gulped in another breath to continue his screaming.

“Marcus. Look at me.”

Marcus focused on the voice of Druindar. The elf still stood before him, luminous and somehow more solid and corporeal, but still mostly the same.

“Breath, Marcus, and rest your gaze on my eyes.”

Marcus obeyed and was glad he did so. Druindar’s eyes acted as an anchor. The world went wild around him, but the steady presence of the elf gradually calmed his terror.

Marcus swallowed and winced at the rawness of his throat. Rasping, he asked, “What have you done to me?”

“You currently see a portion of the reality behind reality. Do not worry, I will veil your sight once more. But first…” Druindar pointed downward. “Look, and remember that I am here.”

Marcus kept his eyes locked on Druindar’s face because if he glanced again at the writhing world at the edges of his vision, his stomach might leap to his throat and then drop to his ankles.

“I can’t,” he whispered. He felt a tear trace a line down his cheek.

“You must.”

“What will I see?”

“The reason I have brought you here.”

Marcus took a few deep breaths while Druindar watched him with steady eyes. The light of life rushed around and above him, and he felt the first twinge in his stomach of motion sickness.

“This will stop after I look down?”

“I promise.”

Marcus nodded and dipped his head.

Where the sky was a field of fire, the depths were a dark desolation. His vision pierced through the floor and went down, down, down until he perceived something solid. There was no light except the occasional flicker and blink of blood red. Anger. Menace. Despair. A desire to devour. These intentions hit him like a gust of hot, rancid air, the final gasp of a sickly, rotted corpse.

And there was movement. Constant movement and twisting and agitation and slithering. Marcus saw the pits of the earth filled with black worms, with no room to crawl but crawling still. Pushing and climbing and scraping against one another, like the constant churning of waves in a deep, dark sea. The red he had glimpsed before were the eyes, shown briefly as one crested to the top and then was buried. An odor of decay and death flooded his senses and his stomach churned and a headache flared deep in the center of his skull.

And then it was gone.

Marcus stared at the solid, wooden floor. Sweat and tears beaded down his face, but with every breath, his headache subsided and his sense of dread calmed.

Druindar was sitting down again, wearing a mild look of concern.

“That pit,” Marcus said. “That is what threatens us? All the time?”

“In a global or cosmic sense, no. They are no more threatening than a single moth is to the whirlwind, and they will be crushed as easily as you could crush an earthworm under your heel. But before that happens, they can cause much unnecessary suffering and heartache.” Here, Druindar sighed and glanced out the window. “Yes, much heartache.”

“But only if we invite them?”

“As I have said. But there are many fools and scoundrels, and they will always be with you until the end of time.”

Marcus blinked a lingering tear out of his eye and wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “You mentioned a choice.”

Druindar smiled. “Now we come to the point. It is time for a Pendragon to again assume the mantle of power and protection, though your task will be greater than Arthur’s.” His face took on a graver look. “It is a mantle not assumed lightly, and it is not a choice I can make for you.”

Marcus waved his hand toward the floor. “Obviously, one choice is to fight literal demons and be on the brink of insanity for the rest of my life.”

Druindar nodded. “Though I give you a boon before I go. You will know all the craft I can teach you, all the secrets of our art that man has longed to know. It will be yours.”

“But there’s a catch.”

“You perceive correctly. If you assume this mantle, all knowledge of my kind will vanish from the earth. There will be no memory of us, no written records. For the sons of Adam, it will be like we never trod this cursed ground. Only you will know the truth.”

Marcus gaped. “But why?”

“It is the way it must be. That is all I can tell you.”

“But that means…” Marcus looked around the room as if the perfect solution would be sitting on a shelf somewhere. “That means no one will believe me. I’ll be alone.”

“I can promise you, Marcus, you will never be alone.” And Druindar’s words had the certainty of deep roots that could crack the foundations of mountains.

Marcus closed his eyes. “And if I refuse?”

“After I am gone, you may do as you wish. You are a good enough writer that your interview with the last elf will likely bring you fame, and if you are savvy enough, fortune. You will rise from journalistic obscurity to the heights of your profession, as you have always wanted. It is the noble life you have always dreamed of.”

“All while demons will run around unchecked. How much damage can they do?”

Druindar steepled his fingers in front of him. “A single man can do much damage, even without the help of a demon, so do not think everything is on your shoulders. However, if there are no more boundary wardens, there will be much additional suffering that would otherwise not happen. Though of most of it, you will be unaware. That is the balm of the second choice. A lack of full knowledge.”

“That’s not much of a choice. It feels like emotional blackmail.”

“Marcus, no matter what you do, the demons lose. Their future is written. Their fate is not on your shoulders. However, the stories that happen between now and the consummation of all things are still important. You are being entrusted with the power to write a different kind of story. Or not.”

“When do I need to make my decision? How long do I have?”

“You have no need for more time because you have already made your choice.”
Marcus pressed his lips into a thin line. He knew that Druindar was right as soon as the elf uttered the words. Infuriating.

Druindar stood up and clasped his hands behind his back. “What do you choose, son of Adam?”

The wizard wore a Yankees baseball cap and sat at the bar, hunched over a beer. Simon knew he was the wizard because when he walked up, the coin buzzed like a phone set to vibrate and grew warmer in his palm.

He slammed the coin down on the sticky wood and took the open seat. There were a few stragglers from the lunch crowd, but the place was mostly empty.

The wizard took a slow swallow of his beer and continued to watch the game on one of the flatscreens. Basketball. Simon had no idea who was playing and he didn’t care enough to squint and find out. He looked straight ahead at the bottles of liquor and said, “I finally found you.”

The bartender came over. “What’ll you have?” He was a big guy, and it wasn’t really a question. Drink, or leave, his expression said.

“I’ll have a club soda.” Simon only wanted to talk to the wizard and didn’t want anything clouding his judgment.

The bartender straightened his mouth into a flat line and moved away.

Simon put his arms on the bar and leaned over to get a better look at the old man. The cap hid most of the wizard’s face in shadow, but he could make out the short, gray beard. He looked like any sixty-year-old widower or divorcee with nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon.

“I know it’s you.” Simon pushed the coin over the rough wood until it clinked against the wizard’s mug. He removed his finger before it could start vibrating again.

The wizard looked down at the coin, the first sign he had even noticed Simon’s presence, but only took a deep breath and moved his gaze back to the muted TV.

The bartender slammed a glass down in front of Simon as if he were trying to squash a cockroach, then crossed his arms. The muscles almost popped out of his shirt.

“Stop harassing my customers.” The bartender leaned forward and Simon leaned back a little without thinking.

“I’m a customer,” Simon said.

“Not yet. Frank, you want me to show this guy the door?”

“No, it’s fine.” The wizard’s voice was rich and deep, as if it rose from a cask of aged wood.

Simon wasted no time after the bartender walked away. “You know why I’m here.”

“That’s an old coin.” The wizard picked it up, examined it, and rubbed one side with his thumb.

“Much older than I thought would be required.”

The wizard grunted. “They don’t exactly sell these in gift shops.”

“No,” Simon said. “No, they don’t.” The millennia had worn away the words and most of the profile of Caesar Augustus. Simon now had a full coin collection from his experiments with the ritual, stretching from the establishment of the Roman empire all the way through the Second World War. The search had not been cheap. He never expected he would need a coin as old as the US Civil War, let alone something from before the birth of Christ.

“You don’t want what I have to offer,” the wizard said and slid the coin back to Simon. He took another sip of his beer and stared at the TV.

“It’s taken me years to find you.” Simon resisted the urge to grab the wizard’s arm.

“So?”

Simon clenched his jaw and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I know how this works.”

“I very much doubt that.”

“You need to pass on your mantle to a successor.”

“And that should be you?”

“Yes.” Simon said. “I’ve been searching for over a decade.”

“Persistence isn’t always a virtue.”

“It shows I’m willing to do whatever it takes. I’m willing to make the necessary sacrifices.”

“Don’t you have a family to get back to?”

“My mom’s dead, my dad’s a deadbeat, and I haven’t been on a date in over six months.” Simon winced after the words tumbled out. They made him sound like a desperate loser. After his breakthrough, most of his waking hours had been spent seeking after the man sitting next to him.

But the wizard fully turned to Simon for the first time and took off his baseball cap. He smoothed down his silver hair with the other hand.

And Simon dove into his eyes. Not voluntarily. He was sucked into a vortex. The wizard’s green irises filled his own vision and became black as the darkest night, swirling with points of light as bright as the noonday sun. Simon couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t move. Minutes passed. Hours? Just when he felt his own head begin to split apart, the pain so great he tried to open his mouth to scream, he was back at the bar, gripping the wood with white knuckles.

The wizard sat as if nothing had happened, facing the TV again, sipping his beer. His Yankees cap sat next to his elbow.

Simon grabbed his club soda and gulped it down, then held the glass as if it was the only thing that tethered his soul to reality. Whatever was squeezing his heart gradually loosened.

It took a while for Simon to find his voice, and he had to scrape the remains of it out of his throat. “What the hell was that?”

“A test.”

Simon wiped the sweat off his face with his shirt. “Did I pass?”

“Barely. You’re older than I’d like, but I suppose you’ll do.”

“I’m ready,” Simon said. The wizard turned to face him again, and Simon flinched as the wizard’s eyes met his own.

The wizard lifted one eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’ll have greater trials than the one I just put you through.”

Simon hesitated, but only for a moment, and only because the pain was a recent memory. He wanted power. Not cheap finding spells or parlor tricks, but real power. The secrets of Merlin. The lost Circean arts. The strength of the Hartummi sorcerers that stretched back to the foundations of ancient Egypt. It could all be his.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

The wizard leaned back and scratched his beard as he studied Simon’s face. “This is the last warning I’ll give you. What you receive will not be what you expect, and the price you pay will be more than you can possibly imagine.”

“Stop trying to scare me away.”

“Very well.” The wizard held out his hand.

Simon took it and the lights of the establishment seemed to dim for a moment. There was strength in that old, callused hand. It felt more like gnarled wood than flesh. They held the handshake for a few seconds longer than polite society would dictate. A warmth spread through Simon’s body as if he had just downed a few shots of high-proof whiskey.

The wizard released his grip, nodded, and turned back to his beer.

Simon bounced his eyes from the wizard to the TV to the bartender, who was cleaning some glasses as if nothing momentous had taken place. “So,” he said, staring at his empty glass. “What now?”

“Now I finish my beer and watch the last quarter.”

“Should I call you Frank?”

“Call me Master.”

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Simon spent almost every day with the wizard after that, but he learned no spells, no secret arts. The first place he met the wizard was at dawn in a secluded park next to a gravel trail that cut through the trees and looped around a small lake.

The wizard sat down on a bench and pulled out a pipe. “Run three laps.”

Simon glanced down at his jeans and his canvas slip-on shoes. “Are you serious?”

“As a coroner.”

“I’m not dressed for this.”

“Next time, you’ll know. Get to running.”

“I thought I was learning magic.”

The wizard flicked his wrist and a fist of wind slammed into Simon’s stomach. Simon doubled over and almost spat out the morning’s breakfast. 

“First lesson,” the wizard said. “You know nothing. Second lesson. You do what I say, when I say it.”

Simon sucked in air until it no longer felt like he was breathing through a straw, then slowly stood up. The dew had soaked his knees. He bit down his anger and swallowed the question that bubbled in his throat.

“You’ll earn the right to ask questions later,” the wizard said. “Start running.”

Simon jogged for miles and ran sprints. It was not an exaggeration that he had never run so much in his entire life. Playground soccer and kickball represented most of his participation in sports. After the first day, it felt like he was scraping the inside of his lungs with every breath. His legs were melting. 

Then the old man forced him to do calisthenics like squats and pushups. Whenever Simon said he couldn’t do anymore, he would be slapped by a whip of air, and somehow found the strength to squeeze out one more rep.

Simon saw himself as a man of books and learning. Physical labor was beneath him. The men and women who did it were definitely beneath him, especially the athletic jerks from high school and college. Now that sloth cost him in pain and dignity.

That night, the wizard dropped a few Latin books in his lap and told him to start studying.

“Is this because most spells use Latin?” Simon asked, excited he was going to start learning something relevant.

“No, it’s because your mind might as well be made of swiss cheese. One of those books is Ceasar’s The War in Gaul. At the end of the year, you will be able to translate it with no help from a dictionary.”

Simon fell asleep at his desk, his forehead plastered on an open book.

The pattern continued for a week, though the amount of running and the type of strength training rotated. Some days he would completely fail to do a single pull-up. Others he would do core work until his abdomen burned.

Always the wizard would be nearby, observing, smoking his pipe or reading a book. Even when it didn’t look like he was closely watching, he would still point out flaws in Simon’s form or tell him to do another rep. Simon still hadn’t learned anything about magic. He dared to ask the question after the lunchtime break while they shared a bench.

“You’ve learned a big truth about magic already,” the wizard said.

“I’ve learned a handful of Latin words and my muscles are so tired I can barely lift this sandwich.”

“Two important clues.”

“I know you need enough mental strength. That’s obvious. I suppose learning Latin helps with that?”

The wizard took a sip of his Diet Coke. “It’s a start. The bare minimum.”

“But I’ve already done magic.”

“You’ve done a parlor trick any child could do. A stage magician is more impressive.”

Simon ripped off a bite of bread and tasteless turkey and chewed it until he counted to twenty-five. It had taken years for him to learn that spell and get it to work. One of the proudest moments of his life.

When he was sure he could keep the anger out of his voice, he said, “I still don’t understand the need for physical fitness and strength.”

“The mind is part of the body. Training the body is part of training the mind, and the discipline transfers.”

Simon glanced down at the wizard’s stomach that poured a little over the top of his jeans, bulging out from the tucked-in shirt.

The wizard shifted his posture. “You’re thinking, if fitness is so important, why is this old man sitting around, getting fat in the sun?” 

Simon looked away and compressed his lips into a line. That was exactly what he had been thinking.

The wizard slapped the bulge at his waist. “I’m sprier than I look. I’ve also had lifetimes' worth of practice so words of power don’t twist my muscles into knots, snap my bones, or warp my mind into convulsions.” The wizard scratched his beard, and his eyes beheld something a million miles away. “Or worse. Much worse.”

The blood left Simon’s face. He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore, despite the miles he had already run that day. Physical risk and danger had never been a huge part of Simon’s life.
The wizard punched him in the shoulder and it was like getting tapped with a ballpoint hammer. There was still strength in that arm. “That’s why you have me. That’s why I’m being so hard on you. So you don’t end up a puddle of mindless flesh, quivering alone until you finally pass from this life.”

“It’s really that dangerous?”

“You’re dealing with the powers of creation, using yourself as a focal point to mess with the fabric of reality. Course it’s dangerous. Why do you think the mantle has to be passed from generation to generation?”

Simon stared down at his limp, half-eaten sandwich and nodded.

“You can walk away at any time,” the wizard said. “No hard feelings. You can leave and  never see me again.”

Ever since Simon became convinced the power was real, he had been obsessed. It’s not like he had anything else waiting for him. A cubicle drenched in flickering fluorescent lighting. Coworkers blathering about weekend home projects and shuttling their kids to practices and games. A 401K waiting for him once he retired in thirty more years. He had built a stable life.

A very stable, very boring life.

“You won’t get rid of me that easily, Master,” Simon said.

The wizard lifted the corner of his mouth in something resembling a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

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Six months passed before Simon learned any real magic. By that time he was a changed man and had learned the value of patience. He was in the best shape of his life and all of his shirts stretched tight against fresh muscles. Random women would strike up conversations with him in a store or at a coffee shop, and sometimes, they would already be smiling. An alien experience for Simon. He acted polite but mostly ignored them.

Animal control was the first skill he mastered, and soon he was getting squirrels to do tricks at the park. He even got one to ride a duck across a pond, which required holding command of two animals at once. The video ended up going viral on social media. The wizard had smacked him on the back of the head and told him to be more careful.

It only worked on wild animals. He learned this the hard way when he tried to get a collared dog to come to him. The dog growled at him, shook its head, and pawed at its ears as if it suffered from a terrible itch.

“It already has a name,” the wizard explained. “Claimed by another soul already. All you can do is confuse and torment it.”

“So it’s impossible?”

“Didn’t say that. But you need to know its true name and have the trust of the namer. More complicated. More time-consuming. Usually not worth it.”

The wizard taught him healing next. To demonstrate, they would wander hospitals and emergency rooms, the wizard using some glamor that allowed them to walk around unnoticed as if they were lingering spirits refusing to pass to the other side. They sped up recovery from recent surgeries. They lubricated kidney stones to ease their passing. They reattached severed fingers so there was only a pale ghost of a scar. Sometimes they stuck around to witness baffled doctors deliver the good news or watch arguments break out between patients and the longsuffering nurses who refused to believe them.

Simon’s final test was at a children’s hospital. A boy named Dylan was dying of a brain tumor. It was a dangerous endeavor. Healing required extreme empathy, in some ways taking on a shadow of the ailment, feeling it, processing it, and using that knowledge to remove it from the other person. Without a firm sense of self, however, the shadow could become something more and bleed into reality. If the tumor had already impaired too much cognitive function, that impairment could pass to Simon. It was a risk he was willing to take. He had already witnessed Dylan’s parents and sisters dote over him during the previous week and had been moved by Dylan’s good spirits and resolve. If anyone deserved to be healed, it was this kid.

“You can use that,” the wizard had said. “But keep it from overwhelming you. Flowers need water, but they can still drown. Like giving a speech at a funeral. You pour in every emotion you have to move the audience to tears, but if you become a blubbering mess yourself, it breaks the power. You stop being a vessel for the words and become the main event instead. In this case, with this boy right here, it can be deadly.”

Simon nodded and began the ritual. He cupped one hand over the boy’s forehead and with the other hand gripped the boy’s hand that was free of IVs. He began to mumble words, both ancient and new, until the wrongness in the boy’s brain lit up for him as a blooming flower in the desert. Step one.

With Dylan’s name planted firmly in his mind as an anchor, Simon released contact and changed the words coming out of his mouth. In his own mind, though no longer being verbalized, the previous chanting continued and merged with new words in a chorus of harmony. The concentration required was immense. His focus had to be impenetrable.

The bright image of the tumor floated over and Simon took it into himself. He sat down and pulled out a small prism that had been charged with years of sunlight, still chanting and thinking words of power that warped the air like hovering heat as they sizzled and sang.

Simon gave a small nod.

The wizard poured a thin line of sand around Simon, locking in the ritual. Locking in the essence of the tumor with Simon. There was no turning back now. If the spell was stopped, if the circle was broken, or Simon lost his focus, there could be disastrous consequences.

Taking a deep breath, Simon changed up his chanting, which designated his full acceptance of the ailment in his own body. But not all at once. A little bit of the tumor became flesh, as if being sketched one line at a time onto reality, siphoned drip by drip from Dylan’s head. Simon squeezed the prism in his hand and light shot out between his knuckles, a miniature star trying to escape from the grip of a wannabe god. Bit by bit, as the tumor leaked into Simon, he burned it away. Bit by bit.

Something tickled the back of his eyeballs. It eventually turned into a scratch. Then, an uncomfortable heat. Then pain. Searing pain. Simon forced his breath to remain steady and even. His hand and forearm cramped, muscles knotting up in rebellion. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He lost track of time. The tumor continued to trickle into his own brain.

And then it stopped. Simon forced himself to release the prism and it chinked on the hard vinyl floor. His hand was stiff and his palm was sunburned. He slowly opened his eyes. The room was the same. Dylan was still sleeping in his bed. No alarms were going off. Simon tried each limb to make sure they obeyed properly before he stood up, holding his aching hand to the side.

“You’re ready,” the wizard said as he squeezed Simon’s shoulder. There was a hint of sadness in the voice, but Simon ignored it as relief and triumph flooded over him.

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Simon arrived at the wizard’s cabin on the night of the next full moon. It was the first time he had been invited to the old man’s true sanctum instead of the bland city apartment. It was plainly furnished and smelled of old wood and dust, but it throbbed with a certain power and Simon had to sharpen his mind to push through the resistance at the threshold.

“Is that to slow down your enemies?” Simon asked.

“My enemies are all dead. Keeps the bugs away, though.”

Simon chuckled. The powers of creation used as bug repellent. Such knowledge would soon be his, and so much more.

The cellar had a dirt floor with countless symbols drawn in concentric circles. Sitting at the center of the vortex of runes was a stone table with leather straps. Shelves sat against one of the cinderblock walls, full of glass jars. Candles offered pockets of light but left deep shadows in the corners.

“First things first,” the wizard said. “I offer you your new name. Simon Magus Alexander Hawthorne. Do you accept it?”

Simon repeated the required words. “Yes, Master.” Something soft and almost imperceptible settled on his shoulders and tightened, covering him like a new skin. Then it vanished. The wizard pricked Simon’s finger and put a few drops of blood in a clay cup. After mixing in some of his own blood, he set the cup down on the floor over one of the runes. Without being asked, Simon tiptoed to the stone table, avoiding the maze of drawn lines, and laid down. The wizard followed and secured Simon’s legs and arms with the leather straps.

Simon tested the strength of the leather. “Are these really necessary, Master?”

“Just a precaution. There can be some...discomfort. And if you roll off and interrupt something, the consequences could be horrible for both of us.” The wizard placed a hand on Simon’s forehead, mumbled a few words, and sat down on another part of the floor. The candles dimmed to mere points of light and then flared up again. Dark stains crawled over the walls in the shifting light.

Simon settled down, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. All of his efforts were finally going to pay off. The long search after discovering hints of true magic and the lineage of wizards. Contorting his mind and spending every spare dollar to concoct the finding spell that had brought him to his Master’s feet. The hard work of the past year. What had seemed a chore at the time became a joy. He was a better person. A better man. Riches and power had been the rewards he craved, but after curing the boy of cancer, after witnessing the tears of joy from the parents, a new spark had lit in his heart and it burned there still, strong and bright.

Something itched deep within his brain. He coughed and tried to bring his hand up to rub his eyes, forgetting that he was bound to the stone. Instead, he blinked hard a few times and squirmed but couldn’t get comfortable again. Discomfort was expected. Pouring knowledge into a brain, no matter how well prepared, would cause some strains and creaks.

Simon let his mind wander back to the future. What would he do first? Riches were a given, but they would be too easy, and he would need to come up with something else to occupy his time. Fame would bring too much scrutiny, so it couldn’t be anything flamboyant. Perhaps he could go to medical school and…

The itch turned into a dull ache that spread to the back of his eyeballs. The sharp smell of sulfur filled his nostrils. He squeezed his hands into fists, but the muscles quickly grew tired and he had to relax them.

Simon twisted his head until the old man was visible at the edge of his sight. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” the wizard said and his voice had changed into something smoother. “Everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be.”

 The room dimmed, though the candles remained strong. Simon blinked. His vision was blurry. The pain seeped further out until his scalp felt scalded. He jerked against the leather restraints and was out of breath far sooner than he expected, especially after his year of cardio training.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Simon said.

“It never feels right. Not to the one on the table, at least.”

Simon’s blood chilled. “What are you talking about?” He struggled again and twisted to get another look at the wizard. Did the old man have less gray hair? “Let me up. Something’s wrong.”

“You young punks are always the same.” The wizard’s voice now had the clarity of a musical instrument with fresh strings. “You might be the dumbest of the lot.”

The words stunned Simon. What was happening?

“The coin should have been your first clue. Its age gave away the truth.”

“No. Please.” Simon strained until the leather cut into his wrists and he began to pant, Every breath was harder to suck in than the last, as if his lungs shrunk with every exhale. His life was being sucked away. Siphoned, just like he had drained the tumor from the boy to himself. He quickly thought of a possible defense. He mumbled some words and focused through the pain until he had an image of his soul and its porous boundaries. Instead of a bright star, it was a coal in a dying fire. Soon, it would tremble and blink out of existence. Simon gathered what strength he could to draw stronger lines and plug the leaks, but nothing he did worked. His focus slipped off any purchase he tried to gain, like his soul had been covered in grease.

His name. He was no longer just Simon. He was Simon Magus Alexander Hawthorne. And the wizard had named him, claimed him, becoming his true master beyond just word and deed.

Simon had no power over his own destiny. The realization deflated the last remnants of his strength.

“Now you understand,” the wizard said, still seated on the floor. “You’re a bit older than my preference, but beggars can’t be choosers. The memory of magic fades. Not as many believe, and if they do, even fewer have the will to seek me out. Back in the day, it seemed like I had to fend off wannabe apprentices every other week.”

“You promised…” Simon whispered. It was all he could manage.

“I like you, Simon,” the wizard continued as if Simon had said nothing at all. “That’s the tragedy of this whole thing. To get it to work, I have to know you to the bone. To understand you. To love you, in some sense. I take no great pleasure in this. But I also don’t want to give up my power. You’d understand, if you’d lived as long as I have.”

Simon opened his mouth to beg one more time, but too much strength had already left him. His muscles had wasted away as if he had been an invalid for the last twenty years. The last image he saw before the cellar faded to black was of a middle-aged man standing up and brushing the dirt off his jeans.

For the past few nights, Malachi had been too frightened to turn off the light. He kept hearing noises. Something muffled coming from his closet. A tapping underneath his dresser. Every once and a while, he thought he saw a shape dart in front of the light shining through his cracked-open door.

When he slept, things grew worse. He had nightmares of small creatures crawling over him and whispering in his ear. He couldn’t understand them. He didn’t know what they were. In his dreams, they were fuzzy shapes made of shadow. One recurring shape reminded him of his new triceratop stuffed animal, Trippy.

He would wake with a shout and run to his parent’s bedroom, and they would mumble something and tell him to go back to bed. The third night, he noticed he was carrying Trippy, squeezing him tight.

Before he had gone to sleep, Malachi had left Trippy at the foot of his bed, facing his closet to guard against intruders. He had no idea how the animal got in his arms. This time, he threw the animal into his room and shut the door. In the morning, his parents found Malachi curled up on the couch under a blanket.

His father promised to sit beside the bed. That was the only way Malachi would sleep in his room again. He also would have been fine with their dog sleeping in the room, but Ace liked eating stuffed animals way too much. All of Malachi’s stuffed animals had been crammed into a bin inside his closet, but the dog would find a way. He always did.

Malachi watched his father reading a book by the light of the hallway. A few times, his eyelids closed and he jerked awake to see his father still there, silent and still. His eyes grew heavier, and he took a deep breath.

When next he woke, it was dark, his father was gone, and moonlight peaked in through the window.

And something tickled both of his ears.

Something brushed his cheek.

He sat up and tried to fling away his sheet, but it was already bunched up at his feet.

“Whoa whoa! Calm down, kid.” The voice sounded small but deep. “Don’t freak out.”

Malachi turned his head and found Trippy standing on his pillow.

“He’s going to freak out,” said another voice, and it sounded like a boy. On the other side of his pillow sat a teddy bear. The color could not be discerned in the dark, but Malachi knew it was Happy, the bear he had received on his birthday two years ago.

And based on Malachi’s shortness of breath, pounding heart, and the scream building up in his throat, it would seem Happy was right. He was about to freak out.

“We’re not gonna hurt you, kid,” Trippy said. “We need your help.”

Malachi looked back at the triceratops. Something tickled his ear again. No, something was in his ear. He lifted his hand toward it.

“Don’t take that out!” Trippy hopped off the pillow. “That’s the only way you can hear and understand us. Took us most of the night to get that in. After we escaped your prison of a closet, of course.”

The closet door was indeed open, its innards hidden in deep darkness. Malachi ignored Trippy’s protests and touched whatever was in his ear. It felt like a frazzled cotton ball.

“Why don’t you turn on the light,” Happy said. “And then we can talk face to face.”

Malachi thought that was a good idea, mostly because the light switch was near the door and he could escape if he needed to. But his fear had diminished. His throat was no longer tight. He got up and flipped the light on, squinting until his eyes adjusted, and then turned to take in the scene.

Trippy and Happy sat on his bed, looking at him. Their eyes still looked like plastic, but they gleamed with life. He had played games and pretended that his stuffed animals talked back to him. Sometimes, he wished they came to life and he would have friends to play with him anytime he wanted.

This wasn’t what he had in mind. They seemed more like grownups.

“I think I’m dreaming,” Malachi said. And it wasn’t even a fun dream.

“I wish you were,” Trippy said. “But this is serious.”

“What’s in my ears?”

“It’s the True Stuffing,” Happy said with a reverence usually reserved for prayer.

“The what?”

“True Stuffing,” Trippy said. “Picked from the Shining Fields and spun by the Golden Lady in the Other World.”

Malachi blinked. He had no idea what any of those words together meant.

“I can see you’re confused,” Trippy said and walked to the edge of the bed. “It’s a good thing we stuffed your ears so your brains don’t leak out.”

Happy sighed and rolled his eyes. “We put it in your ears so you could hear and understand us. The same True Stuffing fills our own fabric and gives us life.”

Malachi touched the fluff in his ears again. “I have to be dreaming.”

“The Other World is in danger,” Happy said. “We need you to come with us.”

Malachi decided to play along. He didn’t want to wake up his parents, and it would be rude to turn out the lights again and try to go to sleep. And boring. If he really was dreaming, he might as well make it the best dream he possibly could, and that meant going on an adventure when you were invited.

“Alright,” he said. “How do I get to the Other World?”

“Through the closet,” Happy said.

Malachi pulled the door open and found all of his stuffed animals dumped on the floor in the corner, overflowing. His mom would kill him. “What did you do?”

“We had to make a portal big enough for you,” Trippy said. “Crawl through. And don’t worry, they all volunteered for this.”

Malachi looked closer and saw that a few of the plushies were shifting as if they had a life of their own. He got on his knees and pushed his hand through the pile, leaning with all of his weight because he expected to be supported by the floor.

Instead, he fell about ten feet onto a tuft of grass, rolling as he landed. His knee hit something hard, so he yelled and pulled his leg closer. Sunlight danced on his hand. It was daytime. And hot. The temperature must have risen at least twenty degrees and he could already feel the sweat threatening to squeeze out of his skin.

Happy and Trippy plopped down next to him. Above, the air shimmered and Malachi could see a faded image of his room. His knee hurt, but he had mostly forgotten about it.

“Will that stay open?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Trippy said. “Sure. As long as no one moves the animals. Or the animals don’t get too impatient or forgetful. Or the Pirate King doesn’t come and close it up.”

“Pirate king?!”

“We said our world was in danger,” Trippy said. “Did you expect to fight a puppy?”

“No,” Malachi said. “But I’ve never fought anyone.”

“Piece of cake,” Trippy said. “You’ll get a sword and stick the pointy end into the Pirate King. Several times.”

Malachi looked back up at the portal that led to his room. Something patted his hand.

“Don’t worry,” Happy said. “We’ll take this one step at a time.”

“Better start stepping,” Trippy said, and his voice was filled with fear.

Before them stood at least a dozen stuffed animals, but not just any stuffed animals. These were the kinds you won at carnival games or arcades. They were all of absurd size, all larger than Malachi, some twice as big, and they did not look kind. Many had patches or missing eyes. Most carried wooden clubs.

In the center stood a mangy, black bear wearing an eye patch. It wasn’t as big as the others, but it was big enough, and it leaned on its one intact leg. The other leg ended with what looked like a wooden peg. In one hand, the bear held something that gleamed in the sun. Malachi thought it looked like one of his mom’s kitchen knives.

This whole thing suddenly became very real.

“Run,” Trippy said.

Malachi stood there, gaping at the small army before him.

“Run now, kid, or you’re dead. We’re all dead. You can’t do much yet, but you can definitely outrun them.”

The Pirate King laughed. “Yes, run. Prove yourself a coward. Prove to everyone that their great hope is a fraud.”

“Do not listen to him,” Happy said. “Do not be drawn into battle before your time.”

“We can end this right now,” the Pirate King said, stepping forward and pointing the knife straight at Malachi.

Malachi didn’t need any more encouragement. He picked up both Trippy and Happy and ran. Behind him, the Pirate King laughed and laughed.

Malachi didn’t know how far he had run or for how long, but he stopped to catch his breath and dropped the two stuffed animals. The sun had moved further west, getting closer to the ground. 

“How did he know where’d we come out?” Trippy said. “He shouldn’t have known that.”

Happy stood up and brushed some grass off of his knees. “We did create a magic portal in the sky. If he was nearby, it could be seen.”

“Well why’d we do that?” Trippy said.

“It is not an exact science.”

Trippy shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like any of this,” Malachi said. “I just want to go home.” He thought beating a stuffed animal would be easy. He forgot how big they sometimes were. And he certainly didn’t expect one to be carrying a real knife.

“Only way back home is through the portal, kid,” Trippy said. “If the Pirate King doesn’t use it first.”

Malachi spun around. “He can do that?”

“If he can reach it,” Trippy said. “Whatever we do, we need to act fast.”

Malachi threw his arms up into the air. “I still have no idea what’s going on! If you told me more before we left, I could have grabbed a weapon. Anything.”

Happy narrowed his eyes. “Your parents leave weapons lying around the house?” He sounded very disappointed.

“No,” Malachi said, “But there are knives in the kitchen.”

“And your mother lets you play with them?!” Happy put a paw to his mouth in shock.

“No, no,” Malachi said. “But this is different.”

Happy didn’t seem convinced.

“I like where your thoughts are going, kid,” Trippy said. “But it’s too late. No use crying over it now.”

“So where do we get weapons?” Malachi asked.

“Not sure,” Trippy said. “Pirate King took over all the forges and enslaved the weaponsmiths.”

“There is only one place we can go,” Happy said. “To see the Golden Lady.”

Malachi let out a sigh. “Then why didn’t you say so before?”

“Because she doesn’t really like us, kid,” Trippy said. “And she definitely won’t like you.”

The Golden Lady lived in a tall tower of shimmering stone, surrounded by fields of golden trees. The trees did not grow leaves. Instead, they grew clouds. Thick puffs of white hung from branches and it looked like the entire area was covered in a floating blanket of the purest snow.

Birds were everywhere. Real birds, but more colorful than Malachi had ever seen, with feathers that carried every color of the rainbow. As he watched, a bird flew down, snatched a small patch of the white stuff, and carried it to the tallest window of the tower. Several birds were involved in this, forming a constant train.

Malachi stopped at a solid wooden door at the foot of the tower. “What do we do now?”

“Knock on it, of course,” Trippy said.

“Right.” Malachi rapped on the door but it made only a soft thud. The door was not only solid, but thick. He lifted his hand to try again.

“Who dares disturb me at my work?” The voice sprinkled down like soft rain and the melody and rhythm was so pleasant Malachi almost started to tap his feet. 

“Answer her, kid,” Trippy whispered.

“Oh, uh,” Malachi looked up and around as if he would be able to see her face in the sky. “Malachi.”

“You come to pluck my golden hair and entrap it in a gemstone?”

“No,” Malachi said. “No, ma’am. My Lady.”

“You come to steal the fruit of my labor and profane it with dark arts?”

Malachi wasn’t sure what she meant, and so the thought had never occurred to him. He answered honestly. “No, my Lady.”

“Then why has such a mortal come if he does not want these things?”

Malachi turned to Happy and Trippy with a question on his face. He had no idea why he was here. They hadn’t really talked about it.

“I do not ask the pilgrims who accompany you, mortal.” She said pilgrims as if the word tasted wrong.

“I need a way to defeat the Pirate King,” Malachi said.

“And why is that?”

Malachi thought it would be obvious. “Isn’t he harming people?”

“He is not the first and he will not be the last.” 

“But won’t he eventually attack this place?”

There was a rumble like the crashing of a waterfall, and the Lady’s voice took on the hardness of melting ice. ”The usurper is welcome to try.”

Malachi took a step back and glanced up at the tower and the sky, neither of which had changed. Not visibly. He realized the Pirate King would be a fool to step foot in the Golden Lady’s grove. What did that make Malachi?

The Lady continued. “There are enough threats in your own world to last many lifetimes. Why do you come to my world to face trouble not your own?”

“Because…” Malachi glanced at Happy and Trippy again. “Because my friends asked me to.”

There was silence so deep that even the busy birds had stopped flapping their wings. The whole world held its breath.

The door clicked and opened.

“You may enter.”

Malachi took a step and then waved for the others to follow.

“We can’t cross the threshold, kid,” Trippy said. “You heard her.”

“The Golden Lady called us pilgrims, but a better word would be exiles,” Happy said, frowning. “She does not like it when we choose to enter your world.”

Malachi swallowed. “I’m going up alone?”

“Afraid so,” Trippy said.

No turning back now. After that entire conversation, it would be rude not to go in. Malachi took a deep breath and stepped into the tower.

Everything inside was overlaid with silver, gold, and bronze, in contrast with the grey stone of the exterior. And it shined. Malachi squinted his eyes as if avoiding the light of the sun. It smelled like springtime, right after the day had burned up all the water from the first good rain of the season. Stairs wound around the inside walls, and every step he took echoed some musical note. At the top was an open door and sitting inside the room was the Golden Lady.

The room itself was normal wood with normal wooden furniture. A bed, a washbasin, a chair, a spindle, and some kind of press with a lever. A large basket sat under the open window where bird were dropping their deliveries of small white fluffs.

The woman who sat at the spindle had long-flowing golden hair, but she wore a plain dress as she worked. As Malachi watched, she took a bundle of spun thread, balled it up, put in in the press, and pulled down the lever. Her lips moved and Malachi thought he heard the hint of a song. She pulled out a bundle of fluff, stood up, and carried it over to some unseen corner of the room. When she sat back down at her spindle, she turned to look at him.

“Do not lurk in my doorway, mortal,” she said, and her eyes were the bluest blue he had ever seen, a blue that had never faded and never would fade. They held wisdom and kindness. And that wisdom and kindness had been forged into power and strength that had been used for ages and ages. Those eyes were old. Very old. Yet still very young.

Malachi stepped in and averted his eyes to the ground. “Are you an angel?”

“No,” the Lady said, and there was the hint of amusement, the edge of an almost-laugh. “But I am not surprised that you think me so. There are none such as I in your world, though there used to be. Now, what would you have me do?”

Malachi had almost forgotten why he had come. He glanced out the window. “You make the True Stuffing here?”

“I make life here,” The Lady said. “I am the mother of all the living in this world.”

“Even the Pirate King?”

“Yes, though his true name is Tolliver, and he was not always so.”

“How do I defeat him?”

“Such questions are for my husband. I will give what aid I can, but counsel in war and violence is not the type of aid I can give you.”

Malachi lifted his gaze for the first time since he had entered. “You have a husband?”

“Of course I do,” The Lady said, placing a hand on her breast. “He is the true king of this world.”

“Well, where is he?”

“He is off working and seeing to his domain, as he should be. When the sun goes down, I shall go to him.”

Malachi balled his hands up and rubbed his eyes, feeling very confused. “But…shouldn’t he do something about the Pirate King?”

“And I’m sure he will, in his own good time.” The Lady turned back to her spindle. “Now, are you going to ask something of me?”

“Can’t you ask the king…the true king…to take care of it? Seems like he would want to do that.”

“I do not nag my husband over such things. He is very busy, and your problems are not the only problems he must tend to.” She leaned over to pick up some of the fluff from the basket.

Malachi thought it over. “Can you make me a weapon?”

“I create life, not tools of death. Look to the forges and weaponsmiths.”

“But the Pirate King controls all of those!”

“Indeed?” The Lady pushed a pedal and began feeding some of the fluff into her machine. She seemed unconcerned. Almost bored.

Malachi looked around the room, thinking this whole trip was a waste of time. He needed to speak to the Lady’s husband. But why did Happy and Trippy want him to come here? His eyes rested on a shelf with piles of cloth and sewing materials.

“What type of stuffed animals can you create?” he asked.

“Anything an imagination can conceive,” The Lady said.

“Do they have the same abilities as they do in real life?”

“I do not understand. Whatever I make becomes real life.”

Malachi tried to think of another way to say it. “Do they have the same strength and abilities as what they are copying?”

“Ah, you mean the same as their counterparts in your world, of the creatures formed out of the dust and molded with flesh and bone.” The Lady furrowed her brow in thought. “No. Or else how could the bear or triceratops talk? They are more, but also less.”

Malachi let loose a small growl in frustration. It all sounded too unpredictable. But then he remembered something else about many of his stuffed animals. “What about clothes? If you make them certain types of clothes, does that give them different abilities?

The Lady stopped pushing the pedal and looked at him again. “Clothes are very important. They can communicate a message or bestow an office. They can exalt or humble. There is power in a uniform. You are right to discern this truth.”

Malachi wasn’t sure he had discerned anything, but he felt like he was getting somewhere.

“And how big can you make your animals?” he asked.

The Pirate King had almost finished the tower that would help him and his minions reach the portal in the sky. A new world to conquer. Escape from the tyranny of the Lord and the Golden Lady. The area was filled with the sound of hammers and other tools.

The ground shook. He could feel it through his feet.

It shook again and again, getting stronger each time.

His minions had noticed it, too, and stopped working to look around.

“Get back to work,” the Pirate King yelled, and they all snapped to obey. He walked to a different part of the hill and scanned the horizon. His gaze settled on a small, bobbing head of brown hair. It was the boy! He was coming back. The Pirate King smiled and touched the knife attached to his belt. He had never shed real blood before.

His smile faltered as he watched. The boy approached much too quickly. There was no way he could run that fast. Or be that tall. Why was his head so high off the ground? 

The boy rode something. Something large and something fast.

Something with large teeth and a giant head. And very, very small arms.

The Pirate King was no longer smiling.

Malachi held on tight to the neck of the Tyrannosaurus Rex, his fingers gripping the fabric. It wasn’t the size of a real dinosaur, but it was big enough. Almost as tall as the tower being built toward the portal. Happy and Trippy held on further below. Trippy had balked at the existence of a huge, new predator and certainly didn’t like riding on one, but he did it with grim determination.

A blur of red and blue shot past Malachi and then came back to float next to him. A red cape billowed out behind it.

It was a bear dressed as Superman.

Which meant it had all the powers of Superman.

The Golden Lady had said it was Malachi’s imagination that had made it possible, his idea that had provided the spark. She, nor anyone else in her world, would have thought of such a thing. Malachi supposed that’s why Happy and Trippy had dragged him here.

“Can you stop them?” Malachi asked.

The bear tilted his head to the side. “Would that be fighting for truth, justice, and the American way?”

Malachi almost laughed at how serious the bear sounded, but he kept his face in check. “They want to hurt people, so…yes?”

Superman shot off and started picking up the Pirate King’s minions and carrying them down from the tower. They had all started to scatter by the time Malachi arrived on the T-rex, and now they fled in panic. Superman held a huge hippopotamus and a giant monkey by the scruffs of their necks, and after a few moments, they were the only minions of the Pirate King remaining in the area.

Malachi leaned down from his perch. “Where is he?”

“He went to the other world,” the Hippo said, staring at the ground, refusing to meet Malachi’s eyes.

“Told me to toss him up and through,” the monkey said. “So I did.”

Malachi looked up at the portal. He didn’t know how much time had passed or if everyone would be asleep, but his family certainly wouldn’t be ready for a stuffed bear armed with a knife. And what if the Pirate King clsoed the portal? How would Malachi get back?

“Superman, can you fly me up and through that fuzzy window in the sky?”

The bear dressed as Superman nodded, and turned to Happy and Trippy. “Will you ensure these criminals are brought to justice?” He dropped the two big animals and they collapsed to the ground.

Trippy gave Happy a side-eyed glance. “Uh…sure.” But he didn’t look so sure.

“Rex here should help you.” Malachi patted the neck of his steed and then stood up and held out his arms. Superman picked him up and flew them both threw the portal.

They both rolled into Malachi’s room at high speed. Malachi didn’t stop until his hip hit his dresser and his feet thudded into the wall. A few LEGO bricks fell to the floor.

“Ow,” he said.

“My powers,” Superman said. “They’re gone. I can no longer fly.”

Great, thought Malachi. So this would be harder than he thought. “You’ll still help me, though?”

Superman straightened himself up to full height (about one and a half feet) and placed his paws on his hips. “I still fight for truth, justice, and the American way. My powers do not change that.” Then he looked a little unsure. “Though I do have the urge to put on some glasses and change clothes.”

That bear still had a lot to learn.

Malachi hoped he wouldn’t need the help. All he had to do was wake up his father, who could easily defeat the Pirate King. His father would know what to do. Malachi opened the door to his room and filled his lungs to cry out as loud as possible.

Cold metal pressed against his throat.

“Don’t even think about it,” the Pirate King said.

Malachi closed his mouth and swallowed. Fear traveled down his spine all the way to his feet.

“I need weapons,” the Pirate King said. “This blade will cut you true, but I need guns.”

Malachi almost said that there were no guns in the house, at least none that he knew of, but Superman jumped out into the hallway.

“I’d like to interview you for the Daily Planet,” Superman said, and he held a small notepad in his paw, one of many that were strewn about Malachi’s room.

This confused Malachi so much that he forgot what he was going to say. Fortunately, the Pirate King also seemed confused. The bear had tensed up and the blade had lifted a bit from Malachi’s neck. Superman, or Clark Kent, was having some problems with his dual identities.

But it gave Malachi time to think.

“They’re stored in the basement,” he said.

“Show me,” the Pirate King said.

“What are your plans for these weapons?” asked Superman/Kent. “And why do you call yourself the Pirate King?”

Both Malachi and the Pirate King ignored the questions, though Malachi thought that maybe he should have had the Golden Lady create a Spider-man or a Batman bear instead.

Malachi led the Pirate King downstairs, feeling the point of the knife digging into his back. They went through the large room, past a bathroom, and to a door at the end of the hallway. It was the unfinished part of the basement that his parents used for storage. Christmas decorations, old toys, extra toilet paper, that kind of stuff.

But it was also where Ace, their dog, slept during the night.

As soon as Malachi opened the door, he jumped out of the way, and Ace barreled out with all the energy of a 90 lb. ball of muscle and fur that still thinks it’s a puppy. The Pirate King went flying, and Ace chased him. His jaws came down on the arm that held the knife and the knife fell to the floor. The Pirate King yelled and beat against Ace’s head with his other paw.

But not for long.

Ace soon had him by the neck, shaking him back and forth in a blur.

Ace had a lot of experience destroying stuffed animals.

So ended the reign of Tolliver, the Pirate King of the Other World.

Malachi had many other adventures in the Other World. He even met the King and dined at his table several times. The Golden Lady always delighted in making the strange, unfamiliar characters Malachi told her about.

Sometimes, other mortals found their way into the Other World, and almost all of them were there for nefarious purposes. Malachi, riding his T-Rex and with the help of his Spider-man and Batman bears, always made quick work of them.

At least until the Dark Magician appeared. But that is a story for another time.

He woke up in the same room he always woke up in, but he did not know it. Not yet. The carpet was soft and the room was lit by a series of sconces that bathed everything in a warm glow. The walls were almost the color of blood. The room smelled clean, almost sterile, but underneath was an old, musty scent that could not be masked.

Next to him was a sword and the only thing he knew was that sword was his. He didn’t even know his own name. The black scabbard reflected the light. He picked it up.

He walked through the only door and into a hallway of paneled wood. He passed painting after painting of scenes he did not recognize and people he did not know. One was of a gnarled tree that looked grey and dead, but still bore some type of red fruit. Several women were picking this fruit and eating it, but all had faces twisted in revulsion.

The hallway ended in heavy, closed double doors. On the other side, something crashed, followed by a deep growl. The man looked behind him, wondering if he should go back but already knowing the answer. There was another crash. He tightened the grip on the sword and went through the doors.

It was a large room filled with round tables all draped in white. A hundred people or so would be able to sit comfortably. At the far end was a stage that held a single lecturn, fit with a microphone. Several of the tables were overturned and their padded chairs scattered. As the man watched, another table was flipped over and landed on the hard tile of the floor. 

The monster flipping the table stood at least ten feet tall, the top of its horned head almost reaching the ceiling. It looked at the man and grinned, with lips the color of cockroaches, slightly darker than the rest of its body.

“Finally.” Its voice sounded like a snake slithering over gravel, and with the word came a thick heat that buffeted the man’s face. 

But the man stood still. His hand itched to draw the sword and so he did. The scabbard clattered to the floor, echoing to the far corners of the room.

The monster tilted its head. On a dog, it would look adorable. On the monster, it was infernal and wrong, like it was wearing another creature’s skin. Part of the man’s mind screamed at him to run. It was a familiar scream, he realized, something he had heard before, a tenor and pitch his feet were used to obeying. 

But he did not run. He braced his legs and brought the sword up in a defensive stance.

The monster charged.

The man lifted the sword.

The monster dodged left at the last second.

The man’s sword, moving so much slower than the monster, sliced through air.

The monster’s claw plunged into the man’s stomach.

He dropped the sword and burning pain spread through his torso.

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He woke up in the same room he always woke up in. This time, he did know it. He scrambled back against the wall and put his hands on his abdomen, hoping to stem the flow of blood.

But he was whole. There was no injury.

The sword in its scabbard lay on the floor.

He calmed down his breathing until his heart wasn’t trying to burst out of his chest.

What was going on?

The room was unchanged. Same carpet. Same walls. Same smell. He wore jeans and a simple black shirt. Is that what he was wearing before? He couldn’t remember.

The sword continued to lie on the floor, which seemed wrong. It belonged in his hand. After all, the sword was his. So he picked it up and walked to the only door in the room and opened it. To the left, he could see the double doors that would lead to the monster. A crash came from that direction. To the right, the hallway continued about the same distance but ended in a dead end with a small table and a potted plant.

The potted plant seemed less likely to kill him, so he walked to the right. As soon as he took a step in that direction, he knew it was wrong. But he persisted anyway. This part of the hallway was also lined with paintings. He didn’t pay attention to any of them because he was walking very fast.

Before he reached the dead end, he noticed a doorknob in the far corner. He broke into a run. More crashes came from behind.

The doorknob was attached to a white door, so white that it hurt the man’s eyes. He marveled that he couldn’t see it before. In the center of the door was a symbol he didn’t recognize. He reached out to turn the doorknob.

It was locked.

Another crash came from the other end of the hallway and now the double doors were open, one hanging off its hinges at an angle. The monster stood there, and even from a distance, it looked terrible. It almost filled the entire space of the corridor. It growled, and the rumble sounded like it came from right next to the man’s ear.

The monster charged.

The man rattled the doorknob again. He pushed the door, then he beat on the door with his free hand. He stepped back and slammed a shoulder into the door, but it had no give, as if it had only been painted onto the wall. And now his shoulder hurt.

The monster reached the halfway point.

The man’s hand itched to draw the sword and so he did. He let the scabbard fall to the carpeted floor.

The monster let its mouth hang open in a smile full of long, sharp teeth. They were as pale as a dead man and the tongue that danced over them was as red as blood.

The man braced his legs and raised the sword.

There was no room for the monster to dodge. The man brought the sword down and felt it connect with something.

The monster’s claw slid across the man’s throat. Blood splattered on the walls.

The man brought his free hand to his throat and it was wet and warm. His vision blurred. The monster let out a satisfied breath and it smelled of crawling termites, of rats feasting, of flies swarming, of every kind of pest.

He woke up in the same room he always woke up in. His hand went to this throat and came away dry and clean. He was whole. His sword lay next to him in the black scabbard.

The man fought the monster at least a dozen more times. Maybe more. Sometimes he ran straight to the conference room and charged. Sometimes he waited just inside the hallway to deny the monster its mobility.

But the monster was too fast and too strong. The man died again and again. The worst were the gut wounds because he could see everything. One time his vision spun around and around at an impossible speed and he realized afterward his head must have been separated from his body.

Every time, he woke up in the same room.

His greatest success came when he ran to the end of the hall with the white door and the potted plant and grabbed the small table to use as a shield. The monster still killed him, but the first strike smashed the table and shattered the bones in the man’s arm. The delay allowed him to plunge the sword into the monster’s thigh and the monster made an almost inaudible grunt.

The man still woke up in the same room he always woke up in, but now he knew the monster could feel pain.

The man decided to try the same thing again. He picked up the sword and ran toward the end of the hall with the white door and the potted plant. He stopped. There were dark and rust-colored stains on the carpet. The man recognized the color of dried blood but did not know what it meant. His own blood had been shed in copious amounts time and time again, yet this was the first time he had seen blood before his encounter with the monster. The man was certain these stains had not been there before. The carpet had always been clean. He stared at them until the familiar crashes from the conference room snapped his attention back. He had no time to think about what the blood meant.

The man knocked over the potted plant and moved to pick up the small table. Something else caught his eye.

The white door had two symbols instead of just one. Each was made up of a different arrangement of three triangles and two small circles. They meant nothing to him. He reached out and tried the doorknob.

It turned.

The double doors at the other end of the hallway crashed open. The monster stood there, familiar and menacing.

The man pushed open the white door and stepped inside.

He closed the door behind him and it took a while for his eyes to adjust to the relative dark. Candles were lit in every corner. At the edges of the light, the man saw the hints of more symbols on the walls and on the floor.

A shadow moved.

The man drew his sword.

A woman stepped into the light.

“Robert!” She ran to him, tears in her eyes, and fell upon his shoulder.

The man stood there with arms relaxed to the sides. Gradually, he laid his free hand on her back, because it seemed the right thing to do.

“How did you get here?” the woman asked.

The door shook and rattled. Something banged against it. The man heard the familiar growl. He pushed the woman off of him and turned to face the monster.

But the monster did not come in. The growls turned into roars and the banging grew louder and louder, but the door held firm.

“It can’t come in,” the woman said.

The man knew it was true and so he let himself relax and turned back around. The woman was covered in as much shadow as she was light, but he could make out blond hair that had been put up in a bun.

“You don’t recognize me?” The woman asked.

“You called me Robert. Is that my name?”

The woman lifted an eyebrow. “Of course.” The banging and roaring continued from beyond the white door.

“Do you know what I’m doing here? Do you know what that monster is?” 

“You look like you could use some rest.” She took a step forward and held out a hand. Let me take that sword and we can talk. You have no need of it in here. We are safe.”

The man tightened his grip on the handle. The sword was his. He didn’t know much, but he knew that.

The woman held up both hands. “Okay, but we’re going to be here for a while. You should rest.”

“I haven’t rested in…” The man furrowed his brow and stared at his shoes. “I don’t know how long it’s been. At least a few weeks.”

“Longer. You’ve only just become aware of the Groundhog Day effect.”

The man looked at her as if she was speaking nonsense, but her face, even in low light, showed she was serious.

“Of course,” she said. “You wouldn’t know the reference. I’ll just call it a time loop. The real name I can barely wrap my tongue around.”

The man took a step forward. “You know what’s happening to me?”

“Let’s sit down, over in the dark. You can rest your head on my lap and sleep. For as long as you need.” Another thud hit the door, but the woman was undisturbed and only held out her hand again in welcome.

Sleep. That sounded nice. While the man’s body felt strong and rested, his mind had been racing nonstop for…how long? He craved even a small moment of oblivion. Just five minutes to not think about the monster, to not be thinking about the battle, about survival, the constant anxiety over and over that flowed all the way to his fingertips. Just five minutes of escape…

As soon as he thought the word, his muscles tensed. The roaring outside the door filled his awareness again. There would be no true escape until that monster was dead. To fold his hands in slumber now would mean…what would it mean? He didn’t know. But something would be lost. Something irretrievable.

“Thank you,” the man said. “But I need to go back out there. I can’t explain it.”

The woman pursed her lips. “It cannot get in. We are safe.”

“This sword was not meant for safety.” The man turned and moved toward the door.

A pain flared in his lower back, sharp and quick. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

He woke up in the same room he always woke up in.

The man grabbed his sword and leaped up. He burst out into the hallway and ran to the right. There were the bloodstains he had noticed before. There was the table and the potted plant.

The white door was no longer there. It was a true dead end.

The man squeezed the handle of the sword until his fingers cramped. He let out a yell of rage and spun around and knocked the potted plant off the table. It bounced on the carpet before spilling its contents. The man yelled again. He had wanted the pot to shatter. With the sword still in its scabbard, he lifted it with both hands and prepared to bring it down with all of his strength.

Then he stopped.

No dirt had spilled out of the pot. Instead, it had poured out sand. Sand as white as snow.

The double doors burst open. The monster roared. The man turned back around to face his foe.

The monster moved quickly. But was it slower? Its bulk was not growing in size at near the alarming rate the man had come to expect, but maybe that was his own disorientation.

The man held up a hand. “Wait. Stop.”

The monster did not wait and it did not stop. 

But it had spoken before and the man hoped to get it to speak again.

“Why do you keep attacking me?” His hand itched to draw his blade.

“I crave the blood of the Champion.” It was past the halfway point now.

Champion.

The man drew his sword. He stepped under the first swing of the rippling arm and made a cut across the monster’s abdomen. But the monster’s large foot came down on his leg and his knee popped and buckled. A claw swung toward his face.

He woke up in the same room he always woke up in.

He sat up and flexed his leg and bent his knee. Before he had died, he had noticed something. The monster’s leg had a small scar the color of bile. It was the same place the man had stabbed the monster, the first time he had ever seriously wounded it. 

He picked up the sword and ran to the end of the hall. There were more bloodstains on the carpet and new flecks on the walls.

For the first time the man could remember, he smiled.

His eyes traveled up to the framed paintings along the wall. He had only ever paid attention to one of the paintings. That was a long time ago. Maybe.

This painting had the head of some beast with horns and a shaggy mane, resting in a pool of blood. A circle of white enclosed the scene, and arranged around the circle were three weeping women. At the top was a sword.

The man’s sword.

The monster in the picture was not the monster the man had been battling, but it was of the same kind.

He had no time to ponder this, because the double doors burst open and the monster charged. Before the man died, he made sure to notice the very thin scar running across the monster’s stomach.

In every battle, the man tried to wound the monster. But not just any wound. Something deep. Something as close to the bones as possible. Something that would never fully heal. He tried to replicate his past success, but while the body of the monster kept a memory of its wounds, the mind of the monster kept a memory of its battles. It learned and adapted. Using the table as a shield no longer gave the man much of an advantage. The monster was always ready for the man’s counterstroke, and the monster was still very fast and very strong.

The man asked more questions.

“Why do you crave my blood?”

“Because I hunger and thirst,” the monster said.

“Do you feast every time you kill me?”

“Until there is nothing left,” the monster said.

This perplexed the man so much that he became distracted and the monster killed him quickly.

The monster would never answer questions about the woman with the blonde hair.

The man’s next big success came when he remembered the white sand that filled the pot. He grabbed a handful of the sand, and as the monster drew near, he flung it in its face. The monster reared up with both claws covering its eyes and howled. The sound was the call of a wolf mixed with the scream of a dying boar, and it bounced off the walls of the narrow hallway. The man plunged the sword straight through the monster’s stomach, right below its ribcage, and twisted the blade. The man lost his head because he could not pull the sword back out in time.

The monster was more wary after that and whenever it charged it did so while protecting its eyes.

And so the man had one less claw to worry about.

After the man woke up in the room he always woke up in, he had a little more time before the monster attacked. He studied more of the paintings and most of them had at least one woman. All of the women were in a state of grief, revulsion, or anger. Some of the paintings had symbols he thought he recognized from the white door that had disappeared, but he couldn’t remember them in detail.

One painting had a woman reaching out over a vast chasm made of white rock, as white as the sand in the pot. On the other side was the man’s sword.

The next time the man woke up in the room he always woke up in, the man ran to grab the potted plant and then ran to the other end of the hallway with the double doors. He discarded the plant and poured a thick line of white sand in front of the threshold. Then he took a few steps back and waited.

After the normal chorus of chairs and tables being overturned, the double doors burst open. A few chips of wood hit the man’s face.

The monster roared, not looking surprised at how close the man was. It took a step forward.

And bounced back as if it ran into an invisible wall. 

For the first time in their many battles, a number so high that the man had lost count, the monster looked confused. It placed its claws on the barrier, pushed it, tapped it, rammed it with its horn, kicked it, and roared in fury. The man covered his ears.

The barrier remained.

The man went back to the room he always woke up in and closed the door. He walked to one of the corners and sat down with his head leaning on the wall. The sounds of struggle and rage continued to come from the hallway, irregular beats on a muted drum mixed with frustrated growls.

And the man slept.

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The man woke up hungry and parched. He did not remember ever feeling these sensations before, but he knew what they were and what they meant. The monster still raged beyond the barrier created by the white sand.

There was no food and no water. If the man delayed long enough, he would die of thirst. Might as well make it quick. The man stood up with his sword and walked back to the end of the hallway with the double doors.

The monster doubled the fury of its pounding and bared its pale teeth and licked the invisible barrier with its long, blood-red tongue.

The man walked up and stood at ease in front of the monster. He looked past the monster into the conference room with overturned tables and chairs. In the far corner, there was a white door.

The same white door.

The man dove over the threshold of white sand and under the arms of the monster. He spun and the sword bit deep into the monster’s calf. He rolled backward and made to stand up and sprint for the door.

Something caught him. A pain flared in his shoulder and then his stomach. He looked down and saw the claw of the monster, dripping with the man’s blood.

He woke up in the same room he always woke up in and he grabbed his sword and charged toward the double doors. He flung them open and ran straight for the white door in the corner.

In a single jump, the monster reached him.

The man tried several times but could never reach the white door. He managed to wound the monster several more times, but the monster remained strong and fast and the man was used to fighting in the narrow hallway and not the large, open room with high ceilings.

The man knew he needed to sever a full limb from the monster, but several times the man had felt a deep thud as the sword reached bone and he knew he would never have the time or the strength to push the sword to the marrow. The man would need to target joints and sinew, but even that would take time to cut through and the monster would not sit still while being butchered.

Or would it?

After the man woke up in the room he always woke up in, he picked up his sword and ran down the hallway to grab the pot full of white sand. He poured a line of white sand several feet in front of the threshold of the double doors and then slid into the corner next to the door jamb. 

The man waited.

Chairs and tables were overturned.

The man braced himself, cradling the pot of white sand with one arm, the sheathed sword tight across his body, and balled up as small as he could make himself.

The double doors burst open.

The door slammed into the man’s shoulder and the man cried out, but the monster roared at the same time. The door, though tilted on its frame, hid the hallway and the monster from the man’s view.

The man waited.

The monster sniffed.

The door broke off its hinges and flew down the hallway.

The monster grinned, showing off its sharp, pale teeth.

The man tried again but hid behind the opposite door. He clenched his jaw and squeezed the handle of the sword tight, and when the door opened and slammed into his shoulder, he was able to remain quiet.

The door broke off its hinges and flew down the hallway.

The monster grinned, showing off its sharp, pale teeth.

The man poured a line of the white sand longways down the middle of the hallway.  He then poured one shorter line of white sand at a right angle all the way to the wall. He ran to the other end and poured another short line at the opposite right angle. This cut the hallway in half with a perfectly crooked line, leaving a thin corridor about ten feet long.

The man stood at the far end, right behind the last line of white sand, and waited.

The double doors burst open and the monster roared. It charged down the hallway. It clipped its shoulder on the invisible corner of the first right angle and bounced to the side, crashing into the wall.

The monster tried again but was too wide to step into the narrower corridor created by the white sand. Its claws caressed the edges of the invisible barrier it could not see, and after a few moments, the monster turned sideways and began shuffling down the hallway, looking awkward and uncomfortable.

The man almost laughed. If the monster had been trying to squeeze into a shirt three sizes too small, it would not have looked more absurd.

The monster arrived at the end of the corridor and banged its horn against the barrier. It growled and let its red tongue hang out. It battered at the invisible barrier but it was cramped and did not have room to bring its full strength to bear.

The man watched for just a few more moments as the monster struggled to reach him. He gripped the pot of white sand tight under one arm, then sprinted toward the other end of the narrow corridor of white sand. In a few seconds, he completed the line on the side the monster had entered.

And the monster was trapped.

The monster shuffled back toward the man and reached the other end of its new cage.

For the second time he could remember, the man smiled.

He turned his back on the monster and strolled into the conference room and walked up to the white door in the far corner. He set the pot of white sand down, which was now mostly empty. The man’s hand itched to draw the sword and so he did and the scabbard clattered on the floor.

He opened the door and stepped in.

The room was the same as before. Candles lit the room and much was hidden in shadow. Symbols covered the walls and floor.

The woman stood in the middle, wearing a black robe, her hands folded in front of her. Her blonde hair was still in a bun, but it looked frayed and there were streaks of steel-grey.

And those eyes glared at him with annoyance.

“How you managed to be even more insufferable without your memories than with them, I’ll never know.” She sneered. “I guess that’s my fault.”

The man held the sword in front of him with both hands. “This is your doing?” He knew the answer, but he still needed to ask it.

“Just give me the sword, Robert, and this can all be over.” She held out a hand.

The man squeezed the handle tighter. “Why?”

“Because that’s why we’re all here. You’ll understand once you give me the sword.”

The man knew that the sword was his. It was the only real truth he ever knew. If he gave it up, everything would change and there was a scratching at the back of his mind telling him that the change would not be for the better.

“I’ve figured it out,” the man said. “The monster is trapped. I’ll be able to cut its head off.”

The woman sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose with a thumb and forefinger. “So another one will be summoned. And another one after that.”

The man took a step forward. “Release me. Stop whatever you are doing.”

“That’s not how this works. Honestly, Robert, you were never the sharpest tool, but I can’t believe you’d be this obtuse.”

“Then I will end it.” The man lunged forward, brought the sword up, and swung.

The blade passed through the woman as if she were mist.

The woman had not moved but there was a hint of shock in her eyes. “That blade cannot touch mortal flesh. It is one of the first things we discussed.”

“And yet I remember nothing.” The man swung again, knowing it wouldn’t work but desiring to do it anyway. His blood had turned to ice water and something in his chest wanted to explode. “You took my memories.”

“And you can have them back if you give me the sword.” She still sounded like a teacher giving a lecture to an unruly student.

It stoked the man’s anger. “You put me in this hell.” All of his wounds and pain and torment flashed through his mind and he relived them all again in a moment. Every part of his body had felt the monster's claws or teeth.

The woman sighed again. “And it can end right now. You can go back to your mundane, boring life.”

The man held out an open palm and studied it for a few moments. “The sword might not cut you. But certainly, my hand could squeeze your throat.”

The woman took a step back. Her eyes were wide and the man was pleased to see fear dancing behind them. She pulled a long dagger from beneath the folds of her robe and brandished it before her.

With a quick thrust and flourish of his sword, the man knocked the dagger from the woman’s hand and it slid across the floor. He closed the distance and wrapped his fingers around her throat. Her scream came out as a bare whisper.

It felt so, so good to silence this woman, to make her pay, to see fear in her eyes, to flip the script he had been acting out for as long as he could remember. 

But it was wrong. Up close, he noticed more wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Strands of grey hair escaped the bun on the woman’s head and flowed around her face. She had grown older since he had last seen her. Much older. He moved his gaze to his own hand and noticed the contrast of skin.

He had not aged a day.

He released the woman’s throat and stepped back.

The woman collapsed to her knees and sucked in big, gulping breaths.

“I am the Champion of the sword,” the man said and then he turned around and walked toward the white door.

“Where are you going?” Her voice was raspy and shrill.

“To kill the monster.”

“They will never stop coming until you give me the sword. The Champion must lay down his sword willingly!”

 The man put his hand on the doorknob. “I think there’s another way.”

“There is not. Robert, this is madness.” The woman crawled toward him. “Please. Please you must give me the sword.”

“No. I don’t think I will.” The man offered the woman a blank expression. “But I will fight until you die of old age. Then, I think, this will be over.” And the man knew it was true in the same way that he knew the sword was his.

The woman moved her mouth, but no sound came out. Tears glistened at the bottom of her eyes.

The man stepped into the large conference room and shut the white door.

From the hallway, the monster roared.

And the man smiled.

“How in the big blue sky do you reckon that?”

“Well,” said Frank, scratching his belly through a stained t-shirt. “That’s what you do in this situation. That’s what I’ve read, at least.”

“That’s what you’ve read.” Chuck doubted Frank had read more than the outside of a cereal box. “I must have missed that story.”

“Yeah. You kiss her and she wakes up.”

“A prince kisses her. Not an unemployed truck driver from Dickson.”

“Well, about that. My grandad told me a story once—”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“No, no, no, now listen.” Frank lifted up his baseball cap and put it back on as if giving his brain a chance to breathe. “My grandad told me once that his great aunt Deloris did some family tree research, had her condo full of records and clippings, and she said we were descended from Charlemagne.”

“Charlemagne.”

Frank nodded, as pleased as if he had just found a five-dollar bill in his pocket.

“The Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne?” 

Frank nodded again. 

Chuck shook his head, impressed, because he hadn’t expected Frank to say a word like “Charlemagne” correctly. Chuck drummed his fingers on the glass box and looked down at the beautiful woman sleeping inside. Her skin almost glowed in the sunlight. Near his hand, and in time with her gentle breathing, a spot of fog expanded and shrunk like it had a pulse of its own.

“You know,” Chuck said, “my grandfather always said we were descended from Solomon.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. All those wives, no doubt he’s got descendants everywhere.”

“Exactly,” Chuck said, though he hadn’t thought of that little detail. “So I figure, why shouldn’t I be the one to kiss her?”

“Well,” said Frank, “I reckon I saw her first.”