“Yes, I forgot you would have been there,” said the taller man. “You never said before.”
“I don’t talk about my work, it tends to upset people.” The little man suddenly sat upright and smiled brightly at Tom. “Now, young master Knight. Drink up before it gets cold. It will make you feel so much better.”
Tom lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip of the golden liquid inside. It was wonderful, rich and sweet; he felt a warm glow through his entire body as he drank. He savoured the taste for a while with a dreamy look on his face when a sudden thought struck him. Putting down the cup, he turned back to the little man.
“How do you know my name?” he asked.
“I know everyone’s name, my dear, even before they know it themselves,” the man replied.
“How? Who are you?”
“Goodness me! We’ve been sitting here chatting away, and we haven’t even introduced ourselves. Please forgive our rudeness young Thomas.”
“Yes, I am sorry,” said the other rising once again. “I am Garren, last of the free Clerics of the Holy Order of Iragoth,” he held out his hand to indicate his associate. “And this is my good friend Colin Mot.”
Colin rose to his feet and grasped Tom’s hand pumping it vigorously up and down. “So very pleased to make your acquaintance young Master Knight.”
Recovering his hand, Tom said, “But how do you know everyone’s name?”
“Well it’s my job to know, you see,” said the little man, his smile trying to hide an awkwardness now so familiar to him. “I am Death.”
“Oh I...Say what!” said Tom, his surprise catching up with his mouth.
“Yes, you heard right, my boy. Surely you have heard of me. Everyone has you know,” said Colin, leaning back in his chair. “It is my responsibility to ensure that everyone dies at their proper time.”
Tom looked startled. “What, you’re an executioner? What sort of a place is this?” he cried.
Garren laughed loudly. “Of course not. Death is who he is not what he does.”
Tom stared incredulously for a moment. “Are you trying to tell me he is the...Grim Reaper?”
The little man chuckled. “I have been known by many names in my quite considerable existence. In your world, I have been called Azreal, Sammael, the Egyptians called me Osiris, and to their forefathers I was Seker. I was Silvanus in Gaul and Ankou in Ireland. The Celts knew me as Gwyn Ab Naud, and the Aztecs, Kukulcan. In Haiti, they gave me the very grand title of Baron Samedi, and yes, in more recent times, I have become known as the Grim Reaper; not my favourite, I might add. Here, where I am not feared and may walk among friends, I chose the name given to me by the Babylonians, Mot. But my closest friends call me Colin.”
After staring at the little man trying to take all this in, Tom said, “I can’t decide if all this is a dream, a hallucination or a practical joke. I know it can’t be real. I also know that the legend of the Grim Reaper describes him as a seven-foot skeleton in a black robe carrying a big long thing with a blade on the end.”
Colin smiled. “Yes, of course,” he muttered and walked over to the door. Garren sat forward in his chair, leaning, arms folded on the table in front of him. He smiled and winked at the boy. Colin took a black cloak off the hook on the back of the door and put it on.
“I’m sorry,” Tom said, awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” He looked over at the cleric who merely raised his eyebrows at him and smiled back. Colin fastened his cloak and picked up a short walking stick with a silver skull on the top. He paused, facing the door and pulled up his hood. As he did so, the cloak billowed out as if caught by a sudden gust of wind and the tubby little man spun round, growing in height as he turned till his head almost touched the ceiling. Beneath the cloak's black hood, the friendly, chubby face was gone and in its place the sinister grin of an eyeless skull. The walking stick had changed along with him becoming the Reaper’s familiar long curved shaft and, from the end where the silver skull had once been, a three-foot blade sprang, sharp enough to cut through glass.
“It’s called a scythe,” the horrifying figure hissed.
“Oh my...” Tom muttered staggering back at the sound of the terrible voice until, at last, he felt the wall against his back. All colour had drained from his face, so he was almost as white as the horrible skull that stared back at him. It began to make an awful gurgling noise which could almost be taken for laughter. With its free hand, it pulled the hood down over its face, bending forward as he did so. The strangled laugh became a pleasant chuckle and the creature’s great height dissolved away like a freshly watered witch from the land of Oz. The razor-sharp blade of the scythe retracted into the shaft, which shrank back to the size of a walking stick. The chortling little figure drew back his hood to reveal the chubby face with the grey hair that had met him when he had entered the kitchen.
“Oh my dear, your face was an absolute picture,” Colin stood his stick by the door and walked over to the dumbstruck teenager. Putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, he said, “Come along, have a drop more mead, it will make you feel better.” Then, looking over to Garren, who was enjoying the show, “Oh, I did enjoy that, haven’t done that for, oh, must be nearly twenty years.”
Tom, recovering slightly from his shock, cautiously walked back to the table and sat down. A shaking hand picked up his cup, and gingerly he took a sip. The strange liquid seemed to spread warmth throughout his body, and his fears seemed to melt away, leaving curiosity in their wake.
“So you take people’s souls when it is time for them to die, is that it?” Tom said, trying to understand.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” replied Colin. “In the old days, I would meet the souls of the recently departed as they left their bodies and escort them to the Ferryman who would take them across the great river to the afterlife. On occasion, I had to insist that the more stubborn soul leave its body, hence the rather intimidating persona. I only use it for children’s parties these days and to frighten the odd person now and then,” he grinned.
“But, as time went by, and the number of living beings increased it became impossible for me to get to them all, even with my limited ability to influence the flow of time, (which, I might add comes in extremely useful if you have to nip down to the shops in your tea break.)
“No, these days they call us the ‘Department of Mortality’. It’s all red tape and paperwork. You have to be accountable, you see. Keep records, audit trails, receipts.” He sighed, and a glazed expression came over his face. “Oh, I miss the old days.” He cleared his throat and returned to the point. “Yes... er, paperwork, you know the sort of thing. Processing the expiration dates, ensuring everyone is dispatched on time, filing soul relocation returns, chasing up late departures, making sure no one has slipped through the net and carried on living after their time, and so on. It keeps me busy,” he nodded and smiled at Tom as if it was any ordinary job.
“But there must be hundreds of people dying every day, how do you get round to all of them?” asked Tom.
“Hundreds! Oh no, my dear. Thousands,” the little man laughed. “I have help. Goodness me I could never do it all on my own. There’s Ernie, bless him. He’s on a youth training scheme, four days with me and one day a week at college. If only he could concentrate on his work for more than five minutes, he would be fine. Bit of a dreamer really. Wants to design clouds. I have to keep a close eye on him, or we get in a frightful state. Four people I found in last quarter’s audit, who were still merrily getting on with their lives when they should be enjoying a nice relaxing death, all because Ernie had a new idea for a cumulus nimbus formation and he filed the death orders with the petty cash vouchers - I ask you.” Colin flung his arms in the air, exasperated.
“Anyway,” he continued. “That’s Ernie. Then there’s Mrs Preedy. She works mornings dealing with the mail and then there’s Edna from the wool shop. She comes in on Wednesday afternoons; it’s half-day closing in the village, you see. She is an absolute godsend.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a very large old pocket watch and glanced at it. It looked a little strange to Tom. It was made of brass with a large winder on the top, and a cream coloured dial with black symbols where the numbers should be. The face had two gold hands for hours and minutes, a black hand for seconds and a fourth, red hand pointing to an inner dial which, instead of numbers had words. At the top it said ‘Normal’, at three o’clock the word ‘Fast’, at nine o’clock ‘Slow’ and at six o’clock the watch said ‘Emergency Stop’. The red hand was currently pointing at ‘Slow’.
“Speaking of work, I suppose I had better get back to it. See what trouble Ernie has got himself into,” said Colin. He pulled out the winder and adjusted the red hand to ‘Normal’. A dizzy feeling came over Tom and for a split second everything seemed to move very fast as if someone had pressed a fast forward button. He blinked, and everything was back to normal.
“Oh sorry, should have warned you,” said Colin noticing the boy’s momentary discomfort. “I’ve just set time back to normal speed. Shouldn’t really slow it down unless I’m working, but I consider it a perk of the job. Garren, thank you for your hospitality.”
“Mr Mot,” Tom said before the man had the chance to rise from the table. “You said you used to go to the dying.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Colin replied.
“Did you go to my world too?”
“Yes,” said Colin tentatively, already beginning to see where this was going.
“Then if you can go from one world to another, you can take me back home,” Tom said, his eyes wide with anticipation.
Colin glanced at Garren. They both looked awkward. In the moment’s silence, Colin heard a rustling sound from near the floor. His keen eyes darted to a wooden chest in the corner by the door to the bedroom where Tom had slept the morning away.
“Throughout the multitude of dimensions where the universes exist, there is an order, a law if you will, which transcends even physical laws. Some people call it fate and others call it the divine plan, but whatever name you choose, it is something which must not be meddled with. Creatures such as myself, who have been given the ability to manipulate the natural laws in order to administrate the essentials of life and death, are bound by a very strict code which prevents us from so doing except in the discharge of our respective offices.”
“But it won’t break any laws, I don’t belong here,” Tom implored.
The noise from the chest became louder as if there was something alive inside trying to get out.
“The very fact that you are here, at this point in time, proves that you are meant to be here; otherwise, there would be ripples of discontentment throughout the realities. Cause and effect you see,” Colin explained. “I believe that you were destined to be here at this time long before your birth.”
“What do you mean, Colin?” Garren asked.
“Are you familiar with the lost scrolls of the ancients?” Colin asked.
“Those that foretell the return of Tomar?”
“That’s right,”
“But that is just a legend. There’s no proof the scrolls ever even existed,” Garren said.
“Oh, they existed right enough. I was there when they were written,” the little man said quietly, looking at the confused boy.
“Surely, you can’t mean...” Garren’s eyes darted across to Tom.
“As you know, my friend, I cannot interfere,” Colin said, getting up from the table. “But if I were one to give advice, I would suggest you enlist the help of those in whom you have the utmost trust and beware the dangers that accompany this young man.”
“What dangers?” Tom exclaimed. “I don’t bring dangers.”
“If Colin is saying what I think he is saying, you are possibly the most important person in this world at the moment, and those who hold power are not going to like that one little bit.”
“Why? I haven’t done anything. I don’t even want to be here,” Tom said, his voice becoming anxious.
The chest's heavy lid began to strain against its clasp as something inside was desperately trying to get free of its wooden prison. This time it caught everyone’s attention.
“What have you got in there?” Tom said, startled.
Garren stared at the chest in disbelief.
“I’ll leave it with you, Garren,” said Mot. “And may the powers favour your endeavours.”
The little man picked up his skull head walking stick and opened the door leading out into the snow-covered street.
“Wait,” Tom called, getting up from the table. “What about me?”
“Be careful,” Mot said. “I’ll say no more.” He turned and started off down the narrow street.
Garren caught Tom’s arm as he went to follow Mot and quickly shut and bolted the door.
“What are you doing?” cried the irate boy. “He can get me home.”
“Tom,” said Garren quietly, putting a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He can’t help you.”
“I just want to go home.”
“I know. Here, come with me, let’s see what is in the chest.” Garren went over to the old brown chest that stood by the wall, now positively rocking with movement inside. Tom stared warily at it for a moment. “What is in there?” he asked.
“Before we open it, I want you to try to calm yourself a little. Have a sip of your mead.”
Tom glared at the cleric for a moment, then sighed, picked up the cup and sipped the rich warming liquid. He felt the warmth spread out from his tummy and began to feel less upset. The chest seemed to calm down too, the rocking ceased, and all that could be heard from inside was a rustling sound.
Garren picked up his staff which was leant against the wall beside the chest.
“Get ready,” he said. “Here we go.” He moved a few feet to the side then cautiously touched the fastening with the end of his staff. Instantly, the jewel set into its head flashed with a bright white light, the clasp burst open, and the lid flew up. As soon as the chest opened, from the hundreds of various sizes and shapes of semi-precious stones and crystals inside, a small gem, lit with a bright yellow glow, forced itself free of the rest and flew towards the startled boy. Tom put his hand up to stop the crystal hitting him in the face, but as it reached his hand, it stopped about an inch from his palm and hung in the air like a firefly. Tom carefully turned his hand, palm upwards, and the crystal gently laid itself in it. The reflection of its light shone in Tom’s eyes as he examined it. Slowly it began to fade until it was gone, leaving an inert yellow crystal in his hand.
“Incredible,” gasped Garren, amazed. He looked from the crystal in the young man’s shaking hand, to his wide eyes.
“What made it jump out at me like that?”
“You did,” Garren replied. “But the surprising thing is that you summoned it without even thinking about it. Amazing.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“No, I haven’t, you’re right there,” said Garren looking confused.
“No, I mean, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
The look of confusion melted into a smile of understanding as Garren reached into the chest and took a small leather pouch from a compartment in the lid.
“Come, let me explain, this is all new to you, I know.” He led Tom back to the table and sat him down. He poured them both another cup of the warming mead then joined the boy, who was examining the crystal.
“In all the worlds in this and every other universe, there is a force of nature that remains constant. Some people call it Mother Nature or give it other names and build religions around it. My order, along with a great many other people in this world, believe that it is from this force that all life comes. After spending a brief time in the mortal realm, the spark of consciousness or soul or ghost or whatever you choose to call it, returns. We believe that this force connects everything, living and non-living, and we call it ‘Magic’.
“Those who are born with the ability to manipulate t
his force call themselves immortals which, as Colin Mot will tell you, is a slight exaggeration. They may well be long-lived, but in the end, they keep their appointment with Mr Mot. The creatures of which I speak are elves, goblins, oracles, witches, centaurs, and so on. They have the ability to use magic to cast spells and enchantments, glamours and hexes and even see into the future or, indeed, into the minds of others.
“The other group of creatures, the Mortals, are more common. Men, dwarves, orcs, trolls, arborials, who are not born with the ability to use magic, but they can learn to use it. The same force runs through mortal and immortal alike, and with many years of study, dedication and constant practice, a student of the art can master magic.
“For a mortal to channel this magical force, we need to focus it in some way, to concentrate it, then project it. We have found that crystals and semi-precious and precious stones are most conducive to this, and just as each one of us is uniquely different, so is each and every stone. Most of them will not concentrate the magical energy or at least not focus it properly.
Imagine pointing a telescope at the sun and projecting the image on to a leaf; if the image is out of focus, it will just get warm. But, if you get that focus just right, you will project a powerful beam of sunlight that will burn straight through that leaf as if it wasn’t there. It is the same with a focal stone. And, it looks as if you and that stone are in perfect focus.
“I would expect a student at the end of his first year’s training to be able to draw a dim light out of a stone and perhaps even levitate it a little. You made it light up like a Deralian Firebug and fly right into your hand, and you did it without even thinking.”
“But how did I do it?” asked Tom perplexed.
“Are you sure you are quite human?” asked Garren.
“Yes, of course, I... The old bloke kept asking that...” his definite expression slowly turned to one of uncertainty.
“Hmm,” Garren mused. “Ever catch your parents do anything out of the ordinary? Ever found any strange things in the cupboards, bat wings, cobwebs, newts’ eyes?”
The Sorcerer's Tome Page 4