The Mantle of the Wizard
A short story.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
Holy smokes. That was great.