Like papers fluttering past in a strong wind, Stephen Strange saw his entire life. Earliest memory. Childhood. School. Early hurts, early triumphs. The growing desire to become a doctor. The feeling of superiority, the growing sureness that he had been selected for a very special fate. Early manhood. Medical school. The first time he had put scalpel to living flesh. The antiseptic atmosphere of the hundred operating rooms in which he had created his legend. The arrogance, the haughty egotism. The accident. His hands. The plunge into despair and self-pity. The trip. Now.
“You sought me for my healing power,” the old man said, making a gesture that lowered Strange to the floor. “But I cannot help you, for your motives are still selfish!”
The anger began to grow again within Strange, but before he spoke, the Ancient One continued. “And yet . . . and yet, I seem to see a spark within you . . . a spark of decency . . . of goodness . . . which I might be able to fan into a flame.”
Strange gritted his teeth. He was not interested in decency or goodness, only in recovering the skill and power of his hands, for without their undeniable ability he was nothing—less than nothing. A godling fallen from Olympus.
“If you will stay here . . . study with me,” the old man said in his reedy voice, “perhaps you will find within yourself the cure you seek.”
Disgust rose in Stephen Strange. “I should have known.” he sneered. “It was all a waste of time! You’re nothing but an old fraud!” He turned away, determined to leave. “Your little parlor tricks don’t impress me! I’m leaving.” He stopped as he caught a glimpse out the window.
The landscape was covered with snow as far as he could see. There had been no snow at all when he had staggered into the mountainside temple. Cold, yes. but hardly snowdrifts. “Where did that snow come from?” he exclaimed. “It wasn’t there before!” He pressed close to the cold window, looking down the mountain. “I could never make it down through the pass now!”
“No,” the Ancient One said softly. “You will have to remain until it thaws.”
Strange turned suspiciously from the window. “That snow isn’t your doing, is it?” The moment he said it, he felt foolish. “Aw, what am I saying? Pretty soon, I’ll convince myself you do have magic powers!”
The old man permitted himself a faint smile. “Naturally, man of the Western world, you must not allow yourself to believe in magic! It would be unseemly.”
Strange made a face and looked again out of the window. The drifts were even higher. These Himalayas must be pretty weird, he thought. You could get killed out there. Good thing he had gotten to the temple—or whatever it was—before the storm hit.
He heard a sound and turned to see a husky man about his own age or slightly older come into the room. He was thickset, with a mane of black hair, but going bald above the temples. He wore an Oriental-style thin mustache and goatee, and a plain, dark-green Chinese robe. His dark eyes, under thick brows, glared with unconcealed hostility at the unshaven and unsavory-looking stranger.
“And now,” the Ancient One said, “inasmuch as you must remain here until the snow thaws, my pupil, Mordo, will show you to your chamber.”
Stephen Strange gave an involuntary shiver. Mordo! The very name was frightening, almost theatrically so. But he smiled inwardly, for his own name had caused his schoolmates and fellow medical students a lot of not-so-innocent fun. Yet this Mordo was a creepy-looking character.
Strange was assigned a room—bare but for a cot and a stool—as tidy and as pleasing as a monk’s cell. He wandered the temple at will, ate sparse meals of rice and soup, and was totally and completely bored. The days became weeks. He explored the place out of boredom. There were many rooms filled with ancient thick books, fragile scrolls, pots and jars—all sealed—and hundreds of talismans, amulets, chains, and symbols carved in stone and cast in metal.
Every day Strange saw Mordo studying, sitting in the Oriental lotus position—one Strange found foreign to his Western ways—but he paid little or no attention to Strange. The servants were wraiths that came and went and spoke no English. There was no one to talk to and nothing to read. The Ancient One spent days sitting motionless, eyes closed, taking no nourishment. He could die and no one would know until he started to smell, Strange thought.
He saw Mordo with a huge scroll unrolled before him. It was covered with marks meaningless to Stephen Strange. Looks like a typical doctor’s prescription, he thought with wry humor. But all that Mordo does is study those meaningless scrolls and recite his empty dirges in that boring monotone of his. What a waste of time! I never should have come here in the first place!
Strange wandered through the temple, hands deep in his pockets, glancing from time to time out the frosted windows, hoping for an early thaw. He turned a corner in the stone corridor and found he was approaching the room where the Ancient One sat on his thronelike chair.
I’ll ask the old man if he knows how long it takes the snow to melt around here, he thought to himself. He turned into the archway to the Ancient One’s room and stopped suddenly.
The Ancient One sat as before, unmoving, his head slightly bowed in meditation. Around him, in writhing tendrils of faint green, were transparent vapors. Even as Strange watched, the vapors thickened, almost obscuring the old man. Strange saw the old man’s eyes pop open and heard his whispered words.
“The vapors of Valtorr! I am being attacked by an unseen enemy!”
Strange took a step into the room, but hesitated. What could he do? How can one combat tenuous vapors?
“The vapors were spawned by black magic!” the Ancient One said, even as the green vapors thickened to opaqueness, almost as if made of something solid. “And only by black magic can they be dispelled!”
The vapors almost obscured the old man now, hiding him beneath a writhing dome of green, closing in, constricting. “I summon the powers of the Vishanti!” the old Oriental cried. “By the spell of the dread Dormammu, in the name of the all-seeing Agamotto . . . all thy powers I summon . . . Begone, forces of darkness!”
There was a blinding flash of light which staggered Stephen Strange. The vapors had dissolved into nothingness by the time Strange’s eyes had returned to normal.
The old man slumped forward, one hand holding his head, and Strange ran quickly to him. “If I hadn’t seen it, I’d never have believed it,” he said. “What was that? What did it mean? What force defeated it?” The questions boiled up in Stephen Strange’s scientific mind.
“I cannot explain to a nonbeliever, but . . .” The old man’s voice was weak and the odd encounter seemed to have drained him. “I must be always on my guard . . . The forces of evil are ever pitted against me!”
Strange brought the old man a glass of water and after a few sips he seemed recovered. “Look, I’m not a surgeon anymore, but I’m still a doctor. I can see that you’re weak . . . ill . . . You need rest.”
The Oriental waved a wrinkled hand. “Impossible! I must remain until I find a successor. The evil forces must not be allowed to run free on Earth.”
Strange tried more arguments, but nothing would nudge the old man, so he wandered away, thoughtful and apprehensive. As he stared out at the snowscape he spoke aloud. “If I stay here much longer. I’ll end up becoming a believer! I’ve got to get away before I become a part of all this madness!”
Already what he had seen was being rationalized away, discredited, and doubted. Nevertheless, he kept an eye on the old man, who at least did not seem to get any worse.
Several more weeks passed and one day Stephen Strange found the snows were at last melting. He went outside in his shabby leather jacket and looked it over. It would soon be time to leave. The knowledge both elated and depressed him. These were conflicting emotions, and he had not had much experience with emotions of any kind—except pride, envy, and greed.
He walked back in and immediately smelled something. Incense was nothing new, but this was an odor of a different sort. He followed the scent until he discovered Mordo s
tanding over a small table. The student magician had his back to Strange and was talking in an intense voice.
“Dormammu, accept my incense offering! Let the force of your power descend upon my enemy! Let him feel your fatal touch! I beseech you, Dormammu!”
Stephen Strange could see, on the table, a ring of burning incense, which emitted an odd green smoke. The smoke parted as Mordo waved his hand and Strange saw a small effigy within the ring of smoke. It was of the Ancient One!
“Dormammu, do not fail me!” Mordo’s voice filled the chamber with an intensity that startled Strange.
“That replica, the spell . . .” muttered Strange. The one who had tried earlier to kill the Ancient One was his own student—Mordo!
Mordo turned suddenly, as if a signal had been given, and stared right at the half-hidden Strange. “Ah! The prying stranger has found me!” He gestured at the replica of the Ancient One and again the wind of his hand parted the smoke. “You wonder what it is I do . . .”
Mordo took a few steps toward Strange, a smile of evil pleasure upon his heavy face. “I’ll tell you, because you are too weak to stop me! I have learned more than the Ancient One suspects, and once he is slain, I shall be the only master of black magic!”
Strange was angered, and offended by Mordo’s arrogance. There was only a flicker of recognition—so this was the way people felt around him, when he had been arrogant and proud!
“You won’t get away with it!” he snapped, turning away toward the arch. “I’ll tell him—he’ll toss you out!”
“Fool!” roared Mordo. The furor in his voice caused Strange to glance back and that was his undoing. “You think I am helpless? You think you can defeat my plan?” Strange again started to turn, but Mordo’s hypnotic eyes held him. “Behold!” the magician said.
Light seemed to flare from Mordo’s eyes and Stephen Strange gaped in surprise. The light filled Strange’s vision until there was nothing else, only the staring, bulging eyes and the brilliance.
“See how easily I can cast a spell upon you?” Mordo sneered. “A spell which will prevent you from ever giving away my secret!”
With a mighty effort of will, Strange wrenched himself from that terrible gaze, but escape was not that simple. Wisps of green vapor seemed to come out of nowhere, swirling about his head in tenuous arms. The wisps became bands and they orbited his head, whichever way he turned. With incredible swiftness they closed around him, thickening, darkening, becoming a heavy metal clamp around his mouth. Stephen Strange tried to cry out, but he could not. The best he could manage was an inarticulate rumbling deep in his throat.
Eyes wide with fear he staggered back, then glimpsed a mirror. But the reflection did not show the gray metal band that encased his head and locked his jaw firmly in place!
Then it isn’t really there, he thought. Yet I am unable to speak. His mind was staggered by the reality that this thought revealed. So there is such a thing as a magic spell—and this is proof of it!
In the reflection. Strange could see Mordo’s triumphant glare. Swiftly, Stephen Strange conceived a plan of action. Although he could not speak, he could move. He turned quickly and leaped for Mordo’s throat.
But the green-clad magician was even swifter. With a gesture he caused flashes of light to leap from the four directions of the compass and bind Strange’s wrists together in a steely grip.
“Halt!” Mordo exclaimed. “By the powers of darkness, I command you!”
Stephen Strange was helpless. He could feel the cold hard edges of the mask covering his face and the cold bright light that bound his hands.
“Weak, unknowing western dog!” Mordo sneered. “How helpless you are before the magic of the ancients!” He gave Strange a contemptuous look. “And now I shall finish with you!”
He gestured and Strange gasped. Both steel mask and binding beams of light flickered and disappeared. “There!” Mordo said. “None can see your iron clamp, or the force that surrounds your wrists . . . but you! You know that they are there!” Mordo laughed roughly and walked away, leaving Strange confused and angry.
Strange felt his face. He could feel nothing, yet he could not free his jaw. His hands were free to move, however, and his legs. Strange tried to rationalize it.
It’s probably nothing more than simple hypnotism, he thought. I won’t let that stop me!
He started off through the cold stone corridors toward the Ancient One’s favorite room. I’ll go to the Ancient One, he thought, and—
He let out a cry of sheer agony. Bolts of light flashed out from the compass points, binding his legs. The moment he stopped moving, the light beams flickered and disappeared.
It was no bluff! Mordo does possess the power of black magic, he thought. But what can I do? I’ve got to warn the old man, got to save him—but how?
Strange found he could walk again, but the moment he thought of warning the Ancient One the beams of light flashed, binding his ankles in searing pain until he stopped trying to move.
Thinking quickly, Strange put his thoughts to other things—multiplication tables. Just how high was the Empire State Building? The compression of a deuterium pellet by laser light was 0.000,000,001 seconds. Was it Puccini or Verdi who wrote La Boheme? Ah, yes, Puccini. Cerebrovascular disease is the third biggest killer in the United States.
He was almost to the arch looking into the Ancient One’s chamber. He could hear Mordo talking to the old man. He doesn’t suspect a thing! Strange thought. Fiji, Barbados, and Iceland are the nations with the smallest number of people in their armed forces: none. Fourteen stone is 196 pounds, in the British measure. “Wherever the art of medicine is loved, there also is the love of humanity.” Hippocrates, about 400 B.C. Attila the Him, Félix Faure—president of France—and Pope Leo VIII all died having sex. The pyramid of Cheops was 146.6 meters high.
“You have shown much progress in your studies, my pupil,” the old man said as Strange shuffled into view. Mordo stood with his back to Strange. “You have mastered many of the mystic arts,” the old man added.
“That is good!” Mordo said, and Strange heard the contempt in his voice. “For I am eager to follow in your honored footsteps.”
I bet you are, Strange thought and opened his mouth. “Listen, I—” He gasped with pain as the steel clamp seized his jaws and the beams of light struck out at his wrists and ankles. He was once again helpless. This time the restriction did not go away when he stopped moving.
“Who dares intrude?” the old man asked in a quavering voice.
Mordo turned with calm confidence. “It is you,” he said, “the witless blunderer from the far Western continent.” His eyes hardened. “Well, if you have words to utter, speak!”
Strange blinked his eyes, the pain at wrists and ankles extreme. He knew the steel and the light beams were invisible, but he felt their painful reality. He saw the sneer on Mordo’s lips and his frustration increased.
The green-clad magician turned away contemptuously. “Send him back to the New World, Ancient One! There is no place for him here!”
Strange tried to catch the old man’s attention, but the hooded eyes seemed sightless. Strange managed a glare at Mordo. How smug he is, he thought angrily. He knows I cannot expose him. Never have I hated anyone so much!
There was another momentary flash across Stephen Strange’s mind. He had never loved anyone either. He had never cared for anyone enough to either love or hate them. It was sad that hatred was his first really deep emotional experience.
“Begone,” the old man said and Strange found he could walk . . . but only away.
Alone and helpless, Strange brooded, his consciousness tinged with the smoky feelings of anger. Now, at last, he thought, I see the power of sorcery! But I cannot give up! Mordo must never be allowed to defeat the Ancient One. For if he should, what would happen to the world as we know it?
Strange acknowledged the depths of his sudden conversion . . . or revelation . . . or realization. He was still confused, uncertain
, and afraid, but he was determined.
A servant passed by and Strange asked for a glass of water, and then realized he could speak. I am only subject to Mordo’s spell if I try to warn the Ancient One, he thought. Yet, I am able to speak of other matters! So there is still one hope.
Stephen Strange conceived a plan. If I, too, can learn the secrets of this black magic, then I can perhaps battle Mordo with his own weapons.
He found he could walk and did so, straight to the chamber of the old Oriental, whom he found alone. The old man’s head came up slowly and he acknowledged Stephen Strange’s existence.
“Ancient One, I crave a boon. I wish to accept the terms you offered me some days ago.” He swallowed nervously before continuing. “I wish to study at your feet, to be taught your knowledge . . . to . . . prove myself worthy of the mystic arts.”
The faintest of smiles touched the withered cheeks. “Ah, at last I have reached the real Doctor Strange!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I knew that there was good within you . . . if I could but bring it to the surface. I accept you, my son. You shall be my disciple!”
Stephen Strange swallowed, astonished at the feeling of raw emotion all this brought to him. But the old Oriental was not yet finished astonishing him. The tiny wrinkled figure made a pass with his hands through the air.
“First, I release you from Mordo’s spell . . . so!” There was a flash of light from the old man’s head, enveloping Strange for a brief moment. “Now you are free to speak, to act, even as before.”
“You . . . you knew of Mordo’s spell?”
“Of course,” the ancient Oriental mystic said. “The pupil can have no secrets from his master.” The elderly wise man raised a long-nailed finger. “But, although he is evil, I prefer to keep Mordo here, where I can control him, rather than banish him.
“One day, my son, when I am gone, it will be your task to battle Mordo . . . to the finish!” Strange gulped audibly, remembering Mordo’s casual enslavement of him. “You have been tested, and you have passed your baptism of fire!” Strange felt an elation, yet a weight of responsibility settled upon him.
Marvel Novel Series 07 - Doctor Strange - Nightmare Page 4