by John Levitt
In the old days, anybody possessing talent whose actions exposed the magical community to scrutiny was summarily executed. Of course, that was a long time ago. Things are a lot looser in modern times, and a lot of ordinary people are aware that there are those among them who are not quite so ordinary. But they don’t really believe it. It doesn’t hurt that anyone who starts talking seriously about things like spells and magic is met with raised eyebrows and rolling eyes.
Most of us try to keep it quiet—not for any nefarious purpose, but just because it makes life easier to avoid all the attention that would follow. Besides, it does seem safest to keep things low-key. Nobody was really sure of what might happen if the existence of the talent were widely recognized, but centuries of secrecy was a heavy pull in the direction of not wanting to find out. And people like Victor do tend to be traditionalists.
Eli had talked me into joining up for reasons that were never very clear to me. He’d known me ever since I was a kid and surely must have understood I wasn’t suited for the job. And Victor wasn’t happy about it; he never completely trusted or even liked me much. He felt I had no respect for the old ways, which wasn’t true, and felt I didn’t have the proper dedication to the craft, which was. God knows how Sherwood felt about it. For all her vaunted compassion and concern for others, she keeps her own emotions very close to the vest.
Since Sherwood and I ended up working together, getting together was a natural progression. For a while it was great. We had instant rapport—much like what she had projected toward me earlier—except that it was real. Or at least I thought it was. With matters of the heart it’s not always easy to tell.
We made an attractive couple, even turning heads sometimes when we went out. Sherwood’s warmth and vibrance make her seem even more attractive than she already is. Myself, I’m a shade over six feet, in shape, with dark shaggy hair, an angular face, and a brooding intensity I carefully cultivated as a teenager and now find difficult to shake. An arcane tattoo depicting two intertwined briars makes a circle midway on my right forearm, adding to the mystique. When people ask its significance, I tell them offhandedly that it has none—like so many others before me, I got drunk when I turned eighteen and stumbled into the nearest tattoo parlor. Truth is, it means a lot. But besides myself, only Eli knows why I got it, and when, and where.
But after a while, basic differences started wedging Sherwood and me apart. She ended up functioning as the voice of my conscience, which naturally I didn’t much care for. Not that she ever said anything, or even that she put out disapproving vibes. It was more that she had to be so goddamned good all the time. I used to hope she would lose her temper over something petty, just once, but it never happened. Maybe she waited until I wasn’t around to flip out. Anyway, it got so I couldn’t even say or do anything the least bit unpleasant when she was around, because I would immediately see how it looked through her eyes and feel horribly self-conscious. And that’s just no way to live.
For her part, she felt that I was wasting my potential, in more ways than one. She fervently believed that somewhere inside me was a wonderful human being struggling to get out. I knew better. But it must have been a sore trial for her to be around me all the time, watching me flail through life. So, we ended up with a mutual parting of the ways. We remained friends though, and from time to time I really missed her. I’m sure the fact that despite her good girl persona she was incredible in bed had nothing to do with it.
Thoughts of Sherwood and bed led to other thoughts, and before I knew it Tommy was no longer glancing over at me; he was flat-out glaring. I’d been cruising along, casually comping, not noticing it was eight bars past where I was supposed to take my solo. I pulled myself together and redeemed myself over the next few tunes. We closed out the set with one of my originals, “Samba Du Jour,” and I headed back to the bar to get a scotch rocks this time. I had a feeling I was going to need it.
I carried my drink back to Sherwood’s table a bit warily. I didn’t care for the direction our discussion had taken. I pulled out the chair opposite Sherwood and sat down again. She looked up and said accusingly, “You played a D9 chord instead of the major seventh at the end of that last tune. Wrong chord. I thought you never make mistakes.”
I shook my head tolerantly. “First of all, it’s my tune. So I can play any chord I want. Second, stop trying to show off your ears. Tommy is the one who made the mistake; he played a C instead of a C sharp. I was just covering for him.”
She frowned. “You’re lying through your teeth.”
“Am not.”
“Are too. I recorded the entire set.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.” We stared at each other straight-faced for about ten seconds, then gave it up.
“It is good to see you,” I said, meaning it. “It’s been way too long. It shouldn’t take a bunch of bad shit to get us together.”
She sighed. “I know. I’ve just been so busy. A lot of weirdness has been going on. You know?”
“I can see that. Which brings us back to why you’re here, I suppose.”
She sighed again. “I’m afraid so. The thing is, a lot’s been happening that we don’t understand, and figuring weird stuff out was always one of your strong points. We could really use the help.” She put a hand up to stop me as I opened my mouth. “I know, I know. You’re not cut out for our kind of work. You’re not even sure it’s worth doing. Etc., etc. We’ve been down that road before, I know.”
“But?”
“But this is different.”
“Different how?”
“Well, you said somebody just tried to kill you, for one thing.”
“Good point,” I conceded.
“And Vaughan isn’t the only one who’s been attacked.”
“Anyone else been killed?”
She shook her head. “Not so far. I still can’t believe it happened.”
I was having trouble getting my head around it myself. Vaughan was one of those guys who never make mistakes. Then I remembered how close I had come myself last night. Anyone can be taken out with a surprise attack if it’s quick enough and manages to catch them off guard. The world’s greatest marksman can walk unsuspectingly past a doorway and have some teenage gangbanger pop out and bust a cap in his head. Still, I had the feeling that involving myself with Victor again wasn’t going to make things any safer for me.
“I don’t know how much help I could be,” I said, waffling.
A look of exasperation flitted across her face. “You’d be a lot of help, Mason. You know that. Stop selling yourself short.” It was an old argument.
I realized it was the second time this evening she had used my name. We all tend not to do that, except Victor when he’s pissed. It used to be considered very bad manners among practitioners, almost insulting, to address another by name unless you knew them well. It was just custom, since that stuff about the knowledge of true names giving power over another is fantasy, and younger practitioners tend to ignore it. But her use of my name again at this point was a subtle reminder of what our relationship used to be. Not really playing fair, but then, I’d done the same thing to her earlier.
Sherwood was wrong, though. It wasn’t that I sold myself short. I simply possess very high standards, and unfortunately find myself unable to meet them. She leaned across the table and took my hand again. Definitely not playing fair.
“Please,” she said. “Just come down and talk to Victor. Half an hour.” She played her trump card. “Eli will be there, too. How long has it been since you’ve seen him?” I slumped down in my chair and gave up.
“Okay,” I said.
“Tomorrow morning?”
“How about afternoon? At the ‘Institute’?” I said sarcastically, putting the word in quotes.
“Don’t be snide.”
“Okay.” I apologized. “At Victor’s, then. Two o’clock.”
I packed up my gear, got my check, and headed home. I offered Sherwood a ride, but she
wisely declined. My van is pretty reliable, an old, clunky, green GMC, but it needs tires and struts and a lot of other things before it could really be called a safe method of transport. I said I make a living playing music. I didn’t say it was a good living.
I was careful when I left Rainy Tuesdays, more aware than usual, but not that concerned. The attack that had been launched on me the night before had taken a lot of thought and energy, and I didn’t think anything else would happen so soon after. Besides, what could happen in the five minutes it would take me to drive home? Okay, I admit it. That was a stupid question.
Two
A light rain was falling when I left the club, not an unusual occurrence for a December evening in San Francisco. The smell of rain on pavement brought with it a wave of unfocused nostalgia: childhood memories and adolescent angst, all mixed up with reflections of past girlfriends, missed opportunities, and a hopeless longing for simpler times. The sense of smell drags up emotions like no other sense can. They say it’s because smell is centered in the oldest part of the brain, the part we still share with the scaly reptiles we once were. All I knew was that life was getting too goddamned complicated and it didn’t look like it was going to improve much anytime soon.
I hadn’t felt like this since I was a teenager. Back then I felt as isolated and confused and alone as only an adolescent can. All of my emotions and most of my actions were colored by the belief I was somehow different. True, most teenagers feel that way, but it turns out I really was different. My mother had a touch of the talent, as did my father, but she wanted no part of such things and turned a blind eye to anything that suggested I was similarly blessed. Or in her mind, cursed. Something had happened when she was younger that turned her against all aspects of talent. My father disagreed. Looking back, I can now see the source of their many arguments. I knew the fights were about me, but I didn’t know why, or what I’d done wrong.
If it hadn’t been for Eli, I don’t know what would have become of me. He was coaching a youth football program. My mother insisted that I get involved in sports, over the objections of my father. Talk about role reversals. I think she believed that once I’d experienced the joy of knocking other kids off their feet, my interest in other things would wane.
Eli of course had no problem recognizing what I was, or at least what I would become. He took me under his wing and introduced me to a world I had never imagined could exist. Then he taught me, with infinite patience, everything he could about the art. I still remember the first time I managed a conjuration of sorts, on a rainy night like this one, when I managed to turn all the streetlights in front of my home a deep chartreuse. Not all that impressive, perhaps, but for me it ranked up there with that other first time we all remember.
I walked the half block to where my van was parked and ran a quick psychic check to make sure no unpleasant surprises were waiting for me inside. I set my guitar in back and walked around to the driver’s side, dropping my keys in a puddle and stooping to retrieve them. I straightened up and opened the driver’s door, yawning. When I saw the object sitting on the front seat I automatically recoiled. It was a cheap child’s doll, oversized and naked, holding out two chubby arms. In one of its hands it held out what appeared to be a small slice of rancid watermelon. I didn’t want to look more carefully to find out what it might actually be. In the other, a curled parchment roll secured with a black ribbon was proffered. The doll’s eyes were rolled back in its head in an appalling parody of death, and something red and sticky was smeared over it. I stared at the doll with mixed bafflement and revulsion. This made no sense at all. It bore no relation to any charm I’d ever seen or heard of. Then I heard the words of Eli, my old mentor and the smartest man I know, echoing in my head. One of his many, many, lectures about attack and defense.
“Misdirection, son. That’s the secret. Just like stage magic. Not everything has to do with power and talent, you see. Start clucking like a chicken, and when they stop to see what the hell is wrong with you, knock ’em upside the head with a two-by-four. Sometimes magic alone just won’t cut it.”
Ah, yes. Misdirection. I whirled around just in time to see the singularity floating softly down to envelop me. Everything went black for a moment, then the world lurched back into view like a television that has been turned off and back on. There I was, still standing outside my van on a rainy night. I looked around cautiously, although it was a little late for caution. No one in sight. I stood there foolishly, rain dripping off the end of my nose, every sense alert. Nothing. Nothing wasn’t necessarily a good thing, though. I could hear the wind and the splash of rain on the street, but that was all. No traffic. No pedestrians. The usual background noises that are always present in a city, even late at night, were missing. So. I didn’t know exactly where I was, but it wasn’t the San Francisco I was used to.
I didn’t know much about singularities. I never was that interested in the purely theoretical aspects of things. What little I could remember came from a late-night dinner at the Café Arguello with Eli one evening.
“They usually only diverge in subtle ways,” he’d said. “They don’t depart too much from reality—our reality, that is. Can’t, that would take too much power. You might not even realize you were stuck in one at first. As to what they truly are, that I can’t tell you. Some say they’re portals to an alternate universe. Some say they’re constructs, totally artificial. One of my colleagues, Georgio, even maintains that they’re nothing more than an unusually powerful form of mental illusion, although he admits there are a lot of things that leaves unexplained.”
“And you think?” I’d asked.
“I really don’t know. All of the above if I had to guess. I’d know a lot more about them if I’d ever been in one, but that’s not something I’m eager to experience. The chances of getting out and back home are apparently not the greatest.”
“But it can be done?”
“Oh, yes. It’s not easy, but what seems to work…”
He’d trailed off as the waiter interrupted us to ask about dessert, and by the time we got our choices straight the conversation had veered onto a different tack. It’s amazing how such seemingly trivial things, things that seem so insignificant at the time, can come back to haunt you. Damn. Trapped for eternity by an overly solicitous waiter.
I climbed behind the wheel, threw the doll onto the floor with distaste and sat gazing out at the rain-soaked street. Finally I decided to drive home. If my home was still there. There wasn’t much else I could think of to do. The streets were ominous, dark and eerie. Empty, empty, empty. Not a person, not a car in sight. Oh, there were cars parked along the curb, just no cars on the streets. If all the people had just disappeared, then why weren’t there abandoned cars in the middle of the road? Oh, right, it wasn’t really as if everyone had vanished. It was just that I was now in a different world, one that possibly wasn’t even real.
I turned onto Valencia, which stretched away as far as I could see. Empty, empty, empty. I ought to be taking notes for Eli, I thought. He’d be fascinated, spinning out theories as to exactly how this sort of thing operated. It would keep him happy for weeks. That assumed I was ever going to see him again.
I pulled up outside my place and parked in the driveway. Just habit—I could have left my van in the middle of the street for all it mattered. I unlocked the front door, walked in, and flipped on the lights. They worked, which didn’t surprise me since all the streetlights and traffic signals had been operating normally on the way home. I called out to Louie with a faint irrational hope that somehow he had been sent along with me, but there was only silence. I turned on the TV and got nothing but snow. I’d kind of hoped for a late-night movie, not impossible, considering.
The first order of business was clear. There was a question that needed answering, though I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like the answer. I paced around the house, avoiding thinking, putting off doing anything. Finally I made myself stop, grabbed a couple of sheets of newspaper
that were stacked on the windowsill, crumpled them up, and placed them in a pile on the floor. I glanced around me, although I knew my surroundings well enough that I didn’t really need to, gathered enough power to set the floor underneath on fire as well as the intended paper, shot out my hand, palm down, and tried one of the simplest conjurations I know. The newspaper remained perfectly intact, resting forlornly on the floor without so much as a scorch mark to show for my efforts. Okay, talent didn’t operate here. I hadn’t really expected it to; that would have made it all too simple.
Disappointment set in, even though I hadn’t been counting on anything. I suddenly felt unutterably weary. Clearly, I don’t handle stress very well. I just wanted to lie down and sleep until everything was back to normal. Although with a million thoughts running through my mind it didn’t seem likely I was going to be able to sleep. I stretched out on my bed anyway and closed my eyes. Those million thoughts were really only variations on one theme: what the hell am I going to do? I had a feeling there was an obvious answer, something to do with different ways of looking at the world, maybe something Eli had said that I’d paid no attention to at the time. The thought kept eluding me, almost surfacing and at the last moment sinking back into the subconscious. For no particular reason I started thinking about Sherwood and then there were birds singing outside the window and it was morning.
I lay there for a while, listening, not thinking at all. Eventually I got up, visited the bathroom, and made some coffee. I opened the freezer and took the last of the Jamaica Blue Mountain that I had been hoarding, given to me last summer as a gift. I ground the beans and waited for the coffemaker to do its thing. If ever I deserved a superior cup of coffee, it was today. Besides, I was curious. If I was living in a construct, would the Blue Mountain still have that unbelievable velvety smooth taste? It did. What that proved, if anything, was not clear but I savored it nonetheless. I took a long shower, put on a clean black sweatshirt and Levi’s, and figured I was about as ready to face this brave new world as I was ever going to be.