by Aiden James
“Me?” Yes, this announcement did surprise me. For some reason, it made me think of the mysterious note.
“We also think the note you received the other night is related,” Attila confirmed, and then smiled. “Alisia is in agreement as well.”
I turned my attention to her, and she nodded while eyeing Attila suspiciously.
“So, it is a double-ring after all?” I asked, reflecting back on something Grandpa once mentioned in private about the possibility of the ring being a two-fingered deal and not the single ring we actively sought, soon after we moved to Denmark.
“Yes, it is actually two rings, but worn as a single unit,” he replied. “A slender silver joint is what holds the two rings together. Both are nearly identical, and the propagation of two different names for it has helped fuel confusion and the errant assumption that it is just one singular ring with two different names, instead of two distinct rings joined together as one ring, either ‘Vulpe’ or ‘Sorin’s’.”
He stood and moved over to a large portrait of a man dressed in the prevalent European style of the mid-seventeenth century. The artistry called to mind the grand Dutch masters such as Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Steen. The subject was handsome, with long dark hair and strong features.
“You didn’t paint this one, I’m assuming?”
“That’s correct, Sebastian... and yes this is one of the ‘forgotten’ paintings of Rembrandt van Rijn,” he explained. “I had traveled to Amsterdam from Vienna several times following this master’s death, and I met the grandson of one of van Rijn’s wealthiest benefactors on my fifth trip to that wonderful city. It’s how this painting came into my possession. But honestly, if not for the youthful subject in the painting, I might not have pestered Johannes to sell it to me.... Does the name ‘Sorin Gabon’ mean anything to either of you?”
Alisia and I traded wary glances confirming my initial thought that Wizard von Stroheim was toying with us. Of course, she and I knew the name of Sorin Gabon quite well, since his death and blood sacrifice failed to save Toma Matei’s life roughly one hundred and forty years ago. Toma was Valerian and Irina Matei’s youngest child, and this tragic event is what started our personal blood feud with our former friends.
Attila chuckled, along with his cousins, eyeing each other with a ‘cat that ate the canary’ look.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“We will share the joke with you soon enough... although the tragedy pictured in your minds is not something the three of us take lightly or would trifle in any way if it were real,” he said.
“What do you mean ‘if it were real?’”
Attila smiled in a pained manner, but didn’t answer Alisia’s question. Instead, he pointed to the painting. “Look closely at the left hand.”
My sister gasped, noticing first what soon followed for me: the two-fingered ring cleanly depicted in the painting.
“So, that is the ‘Vulpe /Sorin’s’ double ring? And it’s worn over the third and fourth fingers, as portrayed here?” I asked. “At the same time, this guy is a young version of the old, obnoxious warlock whom our grandmother killed. Right?”
“She murdered him....” Alisia whispered.
“You are correct about how the double-ring is to be worn, Bas. And, this is Sorin... but he was never a warlock,” said Attila. “Also, Florina only thinks she killed him.”
“Meaning what?” asked Alisia, sounding offended.
“He’s still alive,” I said, voicing the only logical conclusion. “Somehow he didn’t die.”
Attila and his cousins nodded affirmatively.
“Wizards on the level of Adrian or myself remain in the semi-immortal status in terms of how long we can expect to live—despite our titles as Sfant Vrajitor’, or, ‘Holy Wizard’ as bestowed by the EEC. However, there is another level that only a score of wizards during the last three thousand years have attained,” he explained. “Gregorius Ninnius is one of them, and considered to be the ninth oldest living wizard, with a birthdate sometime in the sixth century A.D. Three of his close confidantes are said to be even older... including a former fierce ally of his: Sorin Gabon.”
“What? No way!” Alisia couldn’t hide her disdain.
“Oh, but it’s true... and I’m willing to bet that your uncle, Adrian, is aware of the fallacy behind the cruel trick played by Wizard Gabon upon your family.”
“And, here I thought you were a fan merely by prizing the origins of this painting,” I said, gazing again at what could be an unknown and likely priceless Rembrandt.
“I am a fan of both,” he said, with a touch of remorse. “I’m a saddened fan of the wizard that used to be a close friend of Wizard Ninnius. The double-ring you see on his left hand in the portrait was entrusted more than seven hundred years ago to Wizard Gabon. As highly esteemed stewards for the most priceless relics under the EEC’s care, Gregorius vouched for Sorin above anyone else, believing he would keep this item safe from falling into the wrong hands.”
“I don’t understand... how could anything be good about this man who pretended to be a lecherous old warlock?” Alisia seethed. “That man goaded our family—and the Mateis—into hating the very ground he stood upon!”
My sister’s comment caused me to whip my head around to face her. Everything I knew about Sorin Gabon has been described in my previous chronicle... fairly detailed, I might add. But Alisia just now expressed insights I was unaware of.
“I thought he was just a lecherous drunk, who made an ass of himself to the point that any self-respecting warlock, or witch, would’ve dispatched him from this world for the betterment of everyone,” I said. “Who told you about the goading?”
“Grandma did,” said Alisia. “It made him the perfect candidate to offer up in sacrifice to save Toma Matei, when the youngest member of either family suddenly started to age as fast as a mayfly.”
“Hmmm.” It made sense to me, and yet it was now more mysterious than ever.
“You have no idea just how mysterious, Bas.” Wizard von Stroheim returned to the desk, where he opened one of the top drawers and removed a manila envelope. “Before I share this with you both, let me just say that by the 1800s a very embittered Sorin Gabon had been exiled from the small fraternity of wizards belonging to Gregorius Ninnius’ inner circle. We knew he had come to America, and we also knew that he had developed a fascination concerning the longstanding feud between your family and the Mateis in Europe that had extended around the world by then.... Except in America, where the Radus and Mateis were virtually indistinguishable from each other—other than the fact they are mostly blue-eyed blondes and you are largely green-eyed brunettes. Your families’ loving bond was unique to both clans.”
He paused to unclasp the envelope while sheltering an item from our view as he removed it. Alisia’s subtle head shake told me that she likely already knew what the mysterious item was, or at least what it would reveal.
“There is much speculation about what Gabon intended to do with this relic, since the power wielded within it is strong enough to make the wearer of this two-fingered ring virtually invincible to anyone or anything on Earth,” he continued. “Including dominion over one of the most powerful wizards the world has ever known.”
“Authority over Wizard Ninnius himself?” I sought to confirm.
“Yes.”
“But why would Wizard Ninnius entrust something so formidable to anyone other than himself?” I could tell Alisia’s skepticism was deepening.
“Well—and this is where Adrian’s and my differences originated—we don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Adrian believes that Wizard Ninnius willingly let his dear friend take this potent relic knowing what would happen. But others like myself believe he didn’t know... and for centuries the double-ring remained untracked, and relatively safe in its obscurity. However, once word reached the network of the oldest wizards that this highly dangerous ancient relic was being considered as a means to give one family eternal dominance over
another—namely either your family or the Mateis—Gregorius became quite angry. He demanded the double-ring be returned to Europe at once. But Sorin refused.”
“So, back in 1877, you think Wizard Gabon was going to give it to someone in our families, and stand by to see what happened next?”
Yeah, that’s kind of implied, I know. But I had to ask anyway.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Maybe it was to see if one family would still be kind and compassionate to the other? But human nature—even amongst our kind—has been fairly predictable. You know, the old saying about ‘power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely’ applies just as true for mortals and immortals alike—despite the fact that most of our kind possess portfolios promising financial comfort for eons to come. The lure of having domination over another ends up being too difficult to resist. Unfortunately, it has always been that way. At least for as long as I’ve been walking this planet.”
“So, Sorin Gabon is the one who cursed Toma Matei to suddenly age,” said Alisia, slightly ahead of me in putting the facts together.
“And the test was to see if Grandma would willingly sacrifice one of her kids to take his place,” I said. “If my family’s version of the events is true, then we Radus would be clearly worthier than the Mateis. Especially, when considering what has happened since.”
“Bingo, Sebastian.” Wizard von Stroheim seemed quite pleased. “Meanwhile, the blood of innocent Roma witches and scores of other mortals cries forth against this clan of Mateis, although the EEC has deferred those crimes to a future date—likely still decades away from being tried and punished in accordance with The Code. How would they respond, I wonder, if say, they were to find out that Toma didn’t die on that fateful day in 1877?”
“He’s alive?” my sister and I asked in near unison.
Wizard von Stroheim nodded. “All evidence points to that conclusion... but I won’t bore you with more details,” he said. “However, the old man you heard was no match for Florina Radu when she slit his throat to bleed him for the ceremony? Take a look.”
He finally removed the envelope’s contents, sliding a pair of photographs toward us. Admittedly, I gasped, although mine was less audible than my sister’s.
“Was this picture taken in the late 1940s or early 50s?” I asked, noting the face partially shaded by a fedora was identical to the one in Rembrandt’s painting.
Same long dark hair and handsome youthfulness, which would surely have made a man stand out during that post World War II era. But a more striking element about Sorin Gabon’s image was amplified in the enlargement accompanying the first photograph.
“It’s the same double-ring on his left hand,” Alisia whispered.
“Check out the building behind him, kids.” Attila rose from his seat and walked over to us, tapping a meaty finger on a distinct structure behind Gabon.
“Holy shit!” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s Denmark’s courthouse!”
I recalled how Grandpa talked about legends of Sorin Gabon coming here to Denmark, and with the express intentions of hiding the ring that Grandpa had religiously been searching for. But those legends implied Gabon had come to this region of Tennessee prior to the twentieth century.
“Looks like he’s been here later than that,” Alisia observed, offering me a weak smile as if apologizing for stealing this latest peek inside my head. “I still can’t believe this... but the painting and picture are definitely of the same man.”
“There’s no chance this could be someone else, and not Sorin Gabon?” I asked, looking up from the pictures.
“It’s definitely him,” assured Wizard von Stroheim. “Until you and your family moved here, our search for the double-ring had been fruitless. To be honest, I wasn’t aware of its presence in Denmark, as I assumed that both it and our elusive rogue wizard had moved on when he visited the southern United States following World War II.”
Obviously, this wasn’t the case.
“That’s correct, Sebastian,” our host confirmed. “Despite whatever questions you or Alisia may have, everything points to you being Wizard Gabon’s target. The note will surely be followed by other correspondence directed to you, and eventually exposure to the forbidden double-ring. So, can we get your commitment to contact us immediately when you hear from him again?”
What else could I say?
“Sure.”
“Sure?”
“Sorry, I meant yes.”
“Very good.... Now, you two should head home before the storms come rolling in.”
“Home? You really think the weather will be severe enough to shut things down for Oktoberfest?”
I should’ve thought better than to question the intuitions of a bonafide wizard. No sooner than I spoke, a massive thunderclap shook the building.
“He’s right—we should go, Bas.” Alisia rose from her chair, pulling on my shirt sleeve to get me moving. “Our umbrellas might not prevent us from getting soaked!”
“Too bad we didn’t bring our broomsticks, eh?”
“Broomsticks are off limits,” Wizard von Stroheim warned, eyeing me seriously. “You still must obey the rules, Sebastian. Run along kids... before you get drenched!”
And, with that, our unplanned introduction and visit with our town’s main constable came to an end. Along with our aborted ice cream sundaes, our plans for a carefree Saturday had just been nixed.
Chapter Ten
One might think the revelations about the true identity of the Vulpe/Sorin’s double-ring would be foremost on my family’s minds upon our return to Twin Magnolias that morning. Or, Sorin’s/Vulpe... does the order even matter?
But, the ancient relic discussed with Wizard von Stroheim wasn’t the big thing—other than in my private conversations with Alisia after we returned to an empty house. Everyone was somewhere else... Mom and Dad were with Julien and Meredith Mays, and Grandma and Grandpa were with the Deans and Crawfords. Even my uncles didn’t stop by until that evening. By then, Alisia had joined Harris for an afternoon movie and dinner date, since the rainstorms continued to plague Denmark the rest of the available daylight hours.
So much for Denmark’s Oktoberfest kickoff!
But having the house to myself for a few hours wasn’t such a bad thing. Especially, since it gave me time to rummage through some of Grandpa’s books again, along with an old journal of Dad’s detailing the infamous events that forever drove a wedge between my family and the Mateis in 1877. The bitter divorce of the last alliance between our clans throughout the world.
The books didn’t offer much new information, other than confirming the interchangeable names for the Vulpe and Sorin’s ring. And, no... there wasn’t anything about a two-fingered version of the ring anywhere in my grandfather’s collection. Just the previously understood stuff about the guy who forever screwed up our lives... the warlock Sorin Gabon. Nothing about a ‘Wizard’ Sorin Gabon anywhere.
Of course, the first thought when facing ‘facts’ that contradicted everything previously understood about a subject is “this can’t be true!” But, why would Denmark’s head constable—one appointed by the EEC—lie? It’s not like Attila von Stroheim has something to prove... or does he? Is this some sort of personal axe to grind, perhaps?
No, that doesn’t make sense. Not to me, anyway. After all, it’s not like he and his cousins don’t have somewhere else they’d rather be—our quaint small town’s charm notwithstanding. The likely fallout from ‘those in the know’ in my family, along with the Matei hotheads, could keep us under constable rule for years—or even decades—with the EEC having to continuously squash violent anger in response to anything threatening what we’ve long believed to be the truth.
If you’re thinking the current election season in this country is a powder keg just missing a lighted match, that shit’s got nothin’ on an escalated war between embittered witch clans vying for supremacy in rural America!
Rereading Dad’s journal in light of the possibility th
e old lecherous warlock could be an immortal, youthful wizard in disguise—along with Toma Matei not dying and then being blown as a pile of dust across the clearing where Grandma slit Sorin’s throat—was pretty surreal. The contradicting images in my head stayed with me long after I closed the books and journal and returned them to the bookshelf.
Once my parents and grandparents returned home, just after six o’clock that evening, the interrogation I expected ensued in earnest.
“Alisia called me an hour ago, Bas,” Mom announced, interrupting a rematch between me and the dog over a chew-toy Lucian is particularly protective of. The little guy’s needle-like teeth got me a few times as we ran around the living room until I allowed him to tackle me in an effort to get it back. The way he’d wrap his front legs around my ankles made me think of Gulliver and the wee Lilliputians—the real ones, as opposed to my uncle Adrian’s baseless insult of Wizard von Stroheim. “What’s this nonsense about Attila von Stroheim claiming Sorin Gabon was... or is, a master wizard similar to Gregorius Ninnius and still alive?”
“I wish we had a picture of the old bastard handy,” I said, gathering Lucian into my arms to signal our game was over. “Then Alisia and I could tell you if it bears any resemblance to the much younger dude we saw in pictures and a painting this morning.”
“Florina once had a picture of Gabon... didn’t you dear?” Grandpa asked from the foyer, his voice echoing slightly.
“I did... but I think it was lost in one of our Chicago suburban moves,” she called back to him. It sounded like she was near the backstairs in the kitchen, or maybe even the laundry room. “But, Bas, dear? Don’t let anyone fill your head with any poppycock about Sorin Gabon being anything other than what he was... an unfortunate mistake made by me, but also a mean-spirited warlock who, thankfully, can no longer torment the innocent, be it mortal or immortal!”
She and my grandfather were dressed as if coming home from church—her with a nice dress and him with a suit and loosened tie. Mom and Dad were dressed almost as casual as me, decked out in jeans, but a blouse for Mom and a polo shirt for Dad. Not sure why any of that mattered... Maybe it was because I had spent the afternoon picturing them all in ceremonial robes while deciding the fate of this supposed wicked old man.